I was born so my brother would have someone to torment. We grew up in the ‘50’s and it was a perfect time to be a kid. We freely roamed the streets, alleys and parks. Got on busses and went where we pleased. Walked to the movie theatre where my brother would tell me I couldn’t sit with him because his friends might see. I ended up in the “cry room”. I know this sounds like abuse, but I didn’t really think it was. He was just my big brother.
He was almost 5 years old than I. In spite of the harrassment, I thought he was wonderful. He thought I was a complete waste of time. I’d run behind him making squawking or kissing noises and he’d turn around and say “Hey, look”. He’d point his finger to the sky. I’d look. He’d nick me on the chin.
I fell for it every damn time.
He did it with snowballs, too. And, he told me horrible stories. Like before my tonsils were removed, he said the doctor would “put his hand down my throat and yank them out”. I began crying for my mother and told her what he had said. “Oh, he did not,” she said. “You make up such crazy things”. And, the time I had a tumor on my elbow. He told me “the doctors are gonna’ cut your arm off and your parents are really upset”. I screamed. My mother came in and I told her what he said. “Oh, he did not”, she said. And the time he tried to run me down with a car. Or the time he just tossed me off the piano stool so he could watch tv. I ratted him out every time. And, every time my mother said, “Oh, Felicia. You’re outrageous”.
He smiled. I vowed to get even with him.
He had lots of friends. And when they came to the house he’d say, “Hey, leg wrestle with my sister.” I had really strong legs. Really strong. Still do. It was the only thing about me that impressed him, so he’d convince his friends to leg wrestle.
I always won.
He got along with everyone. People just liked and trusted him. As we grew older people who knew us both would say (to me): I can’t believe you’re Steve’s sister. We’re you raised in different homes? I always responded by saying, “Yes, I was raised by wolves”. I suspect they believed that because we were just so different.
We were opposites. He was calm. I was not. He was considerate. I was not. He was steady and serious. Hmmmm. Not. He behaved well in public. I made scenes.
But each of us thought the other was the funniest person. Ever. So, we developed our own language that was designed to 1) make each other laugh and 2) keep everyone else out of the picture. The jokes were between us. We would sit at the dinner table and begin our sign language. He’d start laughing hysterically. He’d snort and pound the table with his hands. The family ignored us.
We both grew up. He became a lawyer, got married and had two kids.
I ran nonprofits, got married, adopted a refugee from Nicaragua, and collected a bunch of animals.
Dinners with the family were held mostly on holidays and we continued to talk to each other with our sign language. Each time, we laughed as hard and as fully as the time before. The family ignored us. At times, the table would be silent while my brother and I ate and laughed. It was as though no one else was in the room because we were SO FUNNY!
I knew he would always be there. We’d grow old and do our same routines. We’d laugh. He’d snort and drool and bang the table with his hands. I’d launch into a high-pitched laugh that resembled a braying ass.
But that didn’t happen. He died at 52 from an aneurysm.
Thousands of people came to the funeral. His friends. My parents’ friends. My husband’s friends and my friends. Hundreds of people came through my brother’s house during the following week for Shiva. He died on April 13, 1995. Thirty years ago.
The loss of a sibling is like no other. It’s the loss of childhood. No one knew me when I was that young. No one could remember the mutual tormenting, laughter, plotting and games we played. No one else spoke our language.
His death left me in a dungeon. No one could touch me, talk to me or console me. I spent hours in a hammock listening to opera, tears running down my cheeks. The grief was overwhelming. I functioned but at any time when I was left alone, say driving somewhere, I’d cry. There were times when I just pulled to the side of the road and sobbed. My humor had left me. I wasn’t ever going to be funny again and there would never ever be a foolish brotherly connection. Never.
That autumn, GB and I took a trip to Vancouver. As we took the ferry through the San Juan Islands, I tried to throw my grief into the water. I really didn’t want it anymore. I wanted to laugh, be silly and return my wonderfully outrageous brain.
We stopped at a B&B in Vancouver and at one breakfast, I began chatting with a woman who said she was a witch. I told her about my brother. She said she had a remedy for me and suggested we stop at her home in Seattle on the way back to the airport. We did but she wasn’t there. I left her a note.
She called a few days later and said she would send me a package with instructions.
The following week, a package arrived. It contained a white powder and instructions to pour the contents into spring water every day for a week. GB, in his conservative way, cautioned me against consuming a package of unknown white powder in spring water. Of course, I rejected his opinion.
I followed the instructions. I poured the entire contents of white powder into a glass of spring water.
And the grief lifted. I guess I was ready for something to work.
I think about my brother all the time. The acute grief left but the hole in my soul never healed over. There are still remnants of some of our language that I use with his children. A little noise, a little hand movement. We all laugh when it’s done but I can’t help but wish he were here so we could carry on the conversation.
Air. 
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