Dad's garage, where my brother fixes stuff and where I still expect to see Dad.
Had a nice chat on the phone with my brother the other night. We don’t talk often, maybe a few times a year, but when we do, oh… I love it. I really love it. The range of topics. The laughter. The moments when we click.
We’re far apart, geographically speaking. He lives on the family farm in Saskatchewan where we all grew up. I’m in the U.S., West Michigan, where I live with my hubbs & family.
We talked about everything from how to fix the well, to who is coming home for Christmas to how’s Mom doing. (She lives on the farm, too). We talk, we laugh, we reminisce about Dad, and how he would blame us kids when the dog launched rabbit farts in the living room. We reminisce about Dad’s secret stash of candy that wasn’t much of a secret. Then … we get quiet. Because we both miss him more than we can articulate. Because, on the farm, he’s everywhere.
Growing up, my brother and I didn’t see eye to eye on much. He was older, bigger, and way cooler than I’d ever be. I mostly stayed out of his way or did something funny to amuse him. Still.. I loved my brother, his easy charm, his humor. He could tease you raw… but he wasn’t all that rough on me… even though I was annoying and silly and an easy target.
Now, there’s none of that.
What there is now is a man on the phone who sounds remarkably like our Dad, who’s a softy when it comes to his wife, his kids, his dog, anyone really. Who helps others. Who has some health issues, who is aging.
What we have now is a relationship between two people who happen to be related and who actually like each other.