Visiting them, the group that they are, the interwoven strands of their love messy and hard to navigate, but beautiful nonetheless, makes me sad for what could have been.
Our childhood was so fixed on survival, on looking like everyone else, on pretending that it was all okay, and they get the chance to have all that and simply worry about being happy. I wonder if he realizes that he's done this for them because of they way it was for us, that he's made things better for his children because of us.
I love explaining to them, their little faces nose to nose with me, their round wide eyes staring eagerly into mine, the scent of their shampoo fills my nostrils, the silken wisps of their hair tickles my neck, "that's my brother," I say, "Your daddy is my brother."
They giggle, their impish little grins, and say, "no! he's our daddy!"
They love me, they can't get enough of me, they spin me around to see everything they have, they offer me glimpses of their world in a crazy carousel ride and I love it, I love that they are so happy, so eager, so filled up with love.
I wonder how they know, that I'm family, that I'm a part of them, that we belong to each other. They scoop me up with tender fingers and hold me as if they've always known that I've loved them and always will.
Sometimes I look at my brother enviously, he's a good man, living a hard, but full life with three beautiful and adorable children. I want what he has and it makes me wonder if I will ever have it. I wonder if that part of me is used up, spent, done. For after just a couple hours with them, I was exhausted and couldn't wait to go home to the quiet solitude I've come to know.
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