Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
There is always a beginning. A start of something. It can be hard to identify when it began.
They say that the beginning is the best place to start but who are they?
I want to start in the middle. At a time before it spiraled into darkness for my only brother.
Because it wasn’t always bad for him. It was bad when it began and at the end but it wasn’t always hard. Maybe it began around the time that I was born. Maybe it was when Mum became ill. I’m not sure, as I don’t remember. My perception is through other people’s memories and stories of that time. Memories that are warped by my mother’s self-preservation or my father’s inability to communicate emotions prior to my brother’s death.
Overnight my father aged 10 years, went grey and discovered his emotions. I guess the loss of a child will do that. For my mother she clings to a version of events that bridges the gap between reality and appeasing her guilt. I have found subtle amusement over the years in listening to her morph the truth to suit herself until I can see that she truly believes her own half-truths. I on the other hand wear my guilt like a veil that I know can only be lifted with time and self-forgiveness.
Back to the middle…..
My brother, Peter, was 9 years older than me. As adults the age gap was almost irrelevant.
The traveller from overseas had come home with an English girl to settle down in Melbourne. For a time, we were a normal family. A fractured version of a normal family with the past always in the background. For a moment, he was complete and we were happy as a united family. Something that I hadn’t really had growing up.
Even as a child, I didn’t quite understand why I went to private schools and lived at home with my parents while he was shuffled around boys’ homes.
There was a perfectly good bedroom next to mine after all. But my parents didn’t talk about it in front of me and I knew not to ask any questions.