I wondered this morning if my adopted brother had a different childhood than I did. He definitely got fed good food, bought good clothes, and had a steady supply of money given to him. He was allowed to smoke pot in the house, turn on the air conditioner, and I can’t really remember him ever getting a beating, maybe a whooping once or twice but I never saw him bloody. I wonder if they hugged him; I just don’t remember.
I wonder if the Old Man taught him how to drive. I know he got every vehicle a kid could ever want, starting with a yellow 3-speed bike with a banana seat, then a moped, then a Barracuda and a whole bunch of Chevys after that. He was allowed to have friends over and a couple of his girlfriends even moved in with us. I bet the Old Man never wanted to suck on his nipples and can’t imagine his hand being forcibly wrapped around the Old Man’s flaccid white fleshy penis.
I wrote the above two paragraphs two days ago, unsure of how to go on.
And then just now, I read that today would have been Anne Frank’s 85th birthday, and I realize I am lucky. I am fortunate that this is my life, filled with my horrible memories, my bad judgments, my unwise choices but my life nonetheless.
It’s also my life that’s filled with awesome memories of my children, and my grandchildren, and love – so many loves but all of them, at one time or another, very real and very special to me.
My brother is dead now, and I’m still living, so there you go.