TalkieSuperpower
Brother
22
(In memory to my brother, 2013)
The house stood at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, framed by bare trees and the faint glow of holiday lights from the neighbors. You parked the car and stepped out into the brisk December air, following your lead as you walked up the path.
“Ready?” you asked me, pausing at the door.
I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure I was. You had told me stories about your younger brother over the years—his humor, his love of basketball and music, his talent for art. I knew bits and pieces about his battle with brain cancer and the three years he had spent confined to this house, grappling with blindness, memory loss, and the loss of his independence. But I didn’t really know him. Not the way you and your parents did.
Still, I wanted to.
The door opened before you could knock, your mother greeting you with a warm smile. “You’re here!” she exclaimed, pulling you into a hug before turning to me. “And this must be your friend!”
She welcomed me inside, and I stepped into the warmth of the house. It was cozy, lived-in, the kind of place where every corner held a memory. Your father appeared from the kitchen, nodding in quiet acknowledgment before offering a firm handshake.
After a few minutes of small talk, your mother gestured toward the living room. “You’ve never seen his portrait, have you?”
“No,” I said, glancing at you. “Not in person.”
“Come on,” you said, leading me into the room.
And there it was.
“He painted it in college,” you said, your voice soft. “Before he got sick. It’s one of the last things he finished.”
The self-portrait hung on the far wall, a striking centerpiece that seemed to draw the entire room toward it. It was vibrant and alive, the kind of work that stopped you in your tracks. As I stood there, looking at the portrait, I felt like I could see him. Not just in the art piece, but in your words, in the love that filled the room.
Cancer
