Wooden shoes
Wooden shoes on a wooden floor. Listen for yourself.
A longing for my brother's return
The call from headquarters of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came a month or so ago. “We have the records of (name),” a woman said. “We would like to send them to his current ward. Do you have a street address or phone number for his place of residence?”
My mouth ran dry. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”
“Is there someone we can contact who might have that information?”
“Not that I know of.” I swallowed hard. “None of us has heard from him for almost two years.”
She paused. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Yes. I was sorry, too, to hear the words spoken aloud. It had been months since I’d had cause to speak of my brother, and my sense of loss had amplified anew. After I hung up the phone, I wept and wept.
My brother, my only blood sibling, two and a half years older than I. Throughout our childhood he was my mind-twin, or perhaps more accurately, my heart-twin, understanding things nobody else understood. He alone could comprehend the unfillable void in my chest that had yawned wide ever since our parents’ divorce. He alone shared my particular parcel of pain in the troubled blended family created by our mother’s remarriage. We didn’t speak our understanding aloud very often. We didn’t need to.
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