Still My Brother

To my dear brother Yanky,

I feel so blessed to have a relationship with you.

Look at our differences: you’re on the west coast, I’m on the east; you’re completely secular, I’m as religious a Jew as anyone in our circles. You’re wandering and still trying to find yourself, I’m struggling and growing while keeping sacred the life I’ve chosen for myself. I have a large family, thank G-d, and you’re barely holding on to the succession of relationships that come and go.

Deeper yet. You’ve thrown open the gates of our origins — no, you’ve uprooted them. We grew up in the same environment, we went to the same schools and shuls. We heard the same speeches and sang the same niggunim. One image will never fade: you standing with your suit and hat, eyes closed, clutching the Torah on Simchas Torah, a swirl of family and fellow mispallelim pressing tight around you. I have frozen that scene, that dance, that pride and admiration that I felt for you; I refuse to let it go. But I would never remind you of that now — it has all become suspect, painful, something to avoid.

So why do we enjoy speaking to each other so much? Is it because we have had so much in common: shared parents, homes, and memories? Maybe. The chords that bind brothers remain in place for life. A past is a past, and no matter how detailed a painting is, the background frames and defines. But there are no commonalities in our present.