Siblings Reunion

Part 1

Photo by Zoe on Unsplash

When my brother saw me emerge from customs at Budapest’s Franz Liszt Airport, he lifted me off the ground and wrapped me in a hug. I was going to spend a few days with him and his family before driving together to Cluj, Romania for our niece’s wedding, in the summer of 2017.

We had seen each other only a month before, in California, where he and his wife had visited for a few weeks. Yet in that embrace were seven years of separation, two countries, and all the moments in each other’s lives that we had witnessed only over Skype. It meant the world to be able to connect in real time, but it did not replace the physical hug—celebrating our children’s successes or comforting one another in sorrow, while he and my brother in Romania bore the pain of watching our parents’ physical decline and passing.

So this hug in the airport, just the two of us, allowed a few moments to erase that distance of years. It held the warmth of our hearts, my touch on my brother’s temple, the caress on his grey hair.

He took my suitcase into one hand and reached for my hand. In an instant, I was the child he, six years older than me, walked to preschool and kindergarten every morning, on the way to his school.

We filled that one mile with mischief. Our favorite prank was to ring the doorbell on a corner house and then sprint away before the owner reached the gate. By the time he’d step outside, we’d be around the corner, laughing. We’d stop at a small store where he’d buy me candy—tiny bead-sized, that looked like sprinkles, in a round, clear, plastic container. For the five-year old me, the lid was a challenge to open. I had to tug with all my strength to pry the lid open. I always took them to school and opened them in class. I always spilled them and got into trouble. At the end of the day, I’d tell my brother about the spillage, and we’d laugh together from the bottom of our hearts.

In winters, he would take me sledding and ice skating. A few blocks from our street, there was a hill where we and many other kids flew down the street, screaming. I would sit behind him on the sled with my arms tightly wrapped around his waist. The road was unpaved, with potholes hidden beneath the snow. Hardly any cars drove by. Perfect for the children of the neighborhood to play till dark and beyond. I don’t remember ever turning over.

When the lake in the Big Park froze, the City would open it for skating and he’d take me with him. I was little and unskilled, but still, I loved going with my brother. One time, someone knocked me down to the ice by accident and ran over my pinky finger with a skate. Luckily, I had my gloves on. Accident or not, it almost did not matter to my brother. The person was fortunate—a girl.

We always return to those stories when we evoke our childhood. The pranks, the candy, the sledding, the skating. They are the history of our existence, all locked in every hug. We look at each other—he has witnessed my existence from the moment I was born. My brother remembers the girl I don’t remember. We watched each other become adults until life carried us to different countries. We were there for each other’s weddings and celebrated our children’s early years together, before distance became part of our lives.

He, mirror of my father. I, mirror of my mother. We are no longer children, but keepers of our childhood.

He did not let go of my hand until we reached his car in the parking lot, just as he had when we were children, only letting go once we arrived at school.

The touch of his hand, though, was different now. His rough, cracked skin carried the marks of years of physical work; gardening and farming for his family, working a full-time job in Budapest, and doing side-jobs in construction for their fellow villagers.

Ahead of us lay the drive to Romania, our niece’s wedding, and another reunion—this time with our oldest brother. The airport hug had been only the beginning.