I just hung up with my brother, the one who is leaving to the war.
We talked for a moment, saying silly things.
He talked with a horrible French. I talked with my high school English, the one I barely use…
It might be funny if there wasn’t so many feelings behind that wall that life put in front of us.
He is my brother. My brother.
And I think, while we hang up, that it might be too late:
How can I be the sister of a man if I’ve never been the sister of the little boy?
Do I even have the right to call him?
Such nice feelings, that might not be recent, but kind of late instead…
It’s so nice to say « I love You », to sign « Your sister » at the end of my letters… So nice and so very late.
Excuses, explanations, one or two « yes, I know » , there are tons of them… No need to look very far away.
And yet, love is there. As if it had only been hiding, as if it was just that language problem that would have delayed the message, the evidence.
He is my brother. I’m his sister.
End of the story.