Siblings (English Narrative Essay)
A few weeks ago, a storm ravaged the northern part of my country, destroying countless homes and families. The rain was endless, classes were suspended and citizens stayed home. I hated the prospect of being stuck in the same place as my brother. But I didn’t expect something could change in those few days. This is the story of how I realized that despite clashing personalities, frequent fights, and avoiding each other, my brother and I will always be siblings, and that’s something to be grateful for.
It had been raining for days. I remember looking out the window and seeing nothing beyond the thick curtain of rain. I tune in to the afternoon news and saw orange-clad men in rubber boats, fighting a raging river that wasn’t there before. I grab the remote and switched to the next channel, where they were playing a video of children sleeping on a cold gymnasium floor - next channel - a shot of a man on a roof, soaked to the bone with rain - next - a hospital floor submerged in murky water. A week’s break from school is no fun when people are dying. I turn off the television with a sigh and slink into the hallway, wondering what my brother was up to. I poke my head into his room, and my jaw drops. My brother, in all his narcissistic, self-centered glory, was filling a box with old clothes. I peer inside and see towels, worn but still soft; blankets, holey but thick; and some of my brother’s old shirts, baggy and huge. I stare at him with wide-eyes, reaching up to feel his forehead for a fever. I half-expected him to glare or hit me, as he usually does when I annoy him. But he simply folds his shirts and, in a quiet voice, tells me to do the same.
There’s always a sense of purpose in helping people, especially with family. As I savoured the feeling of finally being able to do something useful after days of lazing around, I look around the living room. Our coffee table, once bare and unused, is now covered with heaps of old clothes, stacks of spare food, and piles of blankets. My brother folds clothes and hands them to my mom, who stacks them and wraps them in clear plastic. She tosses them to me and I do the arduous task of putting them in small boxes. We are a conveyor belt of cloth and plastic, moving with a single purpose. After a half-hour of silently stacking and packing, I grow tired of the sound of crinkling plastic and turn on the radio. But instead of hearing the urgent voice of a storm-watcher, the first few lines of The Killers’ Somebody Told Me blare from the speakers. I glance at my brother. We used to sing this song in the car when visiting our grandparents for Christmas. Hearing the familiar chords, he looks up. We both stop what we’re doing and grin at each other, waiting for the right moment.
“WELL, SOMEBODY TOLD ME
YOU HAD A BOYFRIEND
WHO LOOKED LIKE A GIRLFRIEND
THAT I HAD IN FEBRUARY OF LAST YEAR…”
We belt out the song so loudly and suddenly that Mom drops a can of food on her toe. We chuckle as a stream of incomprehensible words spews from her mouth. As we help her to a chair, I look at my brother. This, I realize with some guilt, is the closest we’ve been to acting like siblings for years. I find it shameful it took me a major disaster to remember what we used to have. Looking back at a childhood filled with games and playful banter, I try to remember what ripped us apart.
My brother and I used to fight about the most insignificant things: who ate the last Pop Tart, who’s hogging the Internet speed, whose turn it was to clean the bathroom. But as we got older, the fights started getting bigger. We’d have heated debates about issues like fraternities and psychological manipulation. Our fights could become so intense the neighbour’s little kid would cry. Sometime in the past few years, we started distancing ourselves. We thought if we pretended we weren’t siblings, we wouldn’t have to fight so often. We built a wall between ourselves and neither was willing to break it down.
But that afternoon, as my family packed for those who had lost theirs, that wall started to crumble. I realized how naïve we’ve been, taking each other for granted. While The Killers’ last chord fades in the background, I look at the man attending to my mother. This man of 20 years - once a pudgy little boy who pulled my hair, now a muscular, sharp-witted relief operation volunteer - is my brother. I am his sister. No matter how much we annoy each other, fight each other, or distance ourselves, we'll always be siblings. And I’m glad we still have each other.
This was an essay for my English class. Storing it here just in case my laptop crashes :) Opinions are welome, too.