Brother Broken
About being a big sister...
Mud was a good medium for me to practise my craft at being
the older sibling. It was easy to find and free to use, so I lured my
two-year-old brother to a proper mudhole. It was shallow, so as to not pose a
drowning risk, yet wide enough to provide adequate working space. It was also
located in a spot not obvious to snooping eyes.
I sank my hands deep into the muck. I didn’t need to prod
Mitch to do the same. I told him, “We’re makin’ cakes.”
I pulled out a handful of gunk and mixed in some dry dirt. I
showed Mitch how to mould a cake and smooth it round to make it look like the
buns Mom formed from bread dough. I busied myself with crafting a row of them.
Mitch used his own technique. I grew frustrated, antsy at
his attempts. He wouldn’t pay attention to my method. I couldn’t seem to
explain to him how to get the consistency right. He squeezed the muck through
his little fingers, having fun instead of working at it. His creations looked
more like lumpy dog turds than cakes. At least he was old enough to know not to
eat them.
It didn’t look as though Mitch planned to contribute to the
stockpile, so I gave up the push. He tested the limit of my patience when he
came after my stash, probably fixing to mash up the perfect sculptures I had
formed.
We were too occupied with our task to notice Mom watching
us. We had mud up to our armpits, and crud grimed into our clothes and hair.
Mitch saw her first. He cracked a warm, toothy smile. She softened at his
mirth. She motioned for him to come with her, so he scrambled to his feet and
scudded after her like a fish caught on a hook. My words didn’t come out fast
enough. I wanted to say, “What the hey? Where you going? We’re not done here!
Come back!”
But it was too late to voice objections. He’d abandoned me.
I’d lost him to her charm. Even so, I stood firm, refusing to be lured away
from my task. It was bigger than the two of us. I was practising leadership. I
did what any good leader would do—I resisted, and I expected him to follow my
lead.
He didn’t.
I watched him wander off, trailing his backside after Mom.
The little traitor.
I knew one thing for sure, he wouldn’t be following in my
footsteps. He marched to his own damn drumbeat, and it rarely kept tempo with
mine. My days of perceived influence were over before they had even begun.
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