About a week ago, my brother called me to let me know that our parents’ house had finally sold. Shocker, honestly, the place kinda turned into a dump. But now comes the obligatory trip to their house one last time. Originally - if I even went - I was just going to go by myself, because I much prefer to work with my emotions on my own time. But my brother insisted that I shouldn’t go back alone. Why not go by myself anyways? After all, I’m a big girl, I can handle events like this. It’s not like I haven’t been at my parents’ bedside and their funeral as they passed away. I guess it’s whatever though, he can come with me if it’ll make him feel any better. I know he’s been taking this pretty hard, much harder than me, that’s for sure. But he’s a big boy. He’s most certainly can handle it - he’s the type of guy to look at a messy situation, analyze it, and immediately improve it. For God’s sake, he legitimately didn’t even flinch when our dog died. He just accepted it and powered through. He’ll be able to handle himself, if not now then eventually.
As my brother drives the brief trip up North to Asheville with me riding shotgun, I contemplate again. Will he actually be able to handle himself though? I sure hope so. He’s always been the put-together one, at least until now. Always the perfect one, always the one with a plan, always the smartest in the room. I could never even compete. Will I be able to handle him falling apart if it happens? I doubt it. Over the years I’ve become pretty numb to empathy and emotion. I’d be horrible at handling it. Hell, I couldn’t even handle it when the little girl I used to babysit would start crying about her doll’s ripped-off arm. But at this point it’s too late to think about that, I have my own frustrations to deal with – especially since the car’s been put in park. We’re already here. My brother sighs, and then everything is silent.