Little Brother

I asked him on a whim. He came.

Ten years later, we are still learning how to be siblings again

The old ceiling fan has been rattling

for what feels like hours,

a small, constant irritation

in the thick summer air

settled low

in this tired Soviet-era flat

A little way across the room

my brother is stretched out on the couch

his back to me

He reads something on his phone.

I read mine.

“How’s work in Tokyo?”“

Busy. Same as always.”

“Anywhere you still want to go?”

“Not really.”

More than ten years

since we last had time like this,

and somehow,

having a little brother

is more or less the same.

When it is time,

he gets up.

I pull on my sneakers,

heels crushed down,

just like I am heading

to the corner shop.

The main road is closed,

so we take the long way

through the smaller streets.

We walk side by side

without speaking,

as we always have.

You have always walked beside me,

or half a step behind,

as if wherever I was going

was reason enough to come.

Years later,

in a small European country

far from home,

we are doing it again,

walking through the heat

to the baths.

You wait

while I buy coffee.

I wait by the door

while you buy

a two-litre bottle of water

from some tiny local shop,

clicking your tongue

when the cashier hands you

a ridiculous pile of coins.

Then we keep walking.

Later,

village after village

high in the mountains,

we pick flowering herbs

with our hands.

We stand off to one side,

watching the children

run in and out of the crowd.

The taxi comes almost too easily.

You say, “See you,”

lift one hand,

and are gone

before there is time

to make it into a goodbye.

I walk back

the same way,

as ordinarily

as I came.

Back in the old flat,

now only mine,

I open the window.

A lukewarm breath of air

sinks into the room.

I feel it for a moment,

then go back

to my book.

At some point

I drift half asleep.

Later, a message:

“Left the country.”

Brief as a telegram.

You hardly ever text.

I send back

something equally ordinary.

The message does not deliver.

Only then do I realise

you no longer have signal.

By then,

the air through the window

has turned cooler.

I wash the mugs,

dry at the bottom.

I put away the pot

we used for tea

with the herbs

we picked in the mountains.

On the desk,

the European charging cable

I lent you

is still there.

I pick it up.

And only then,

in the same old room,

with the fan still going,

I realise

how quiet it is.

I miss

my little brother.