Living at the Margins

On proximity, and what we sacrifice

It is Friday morning.

You are sitting in the car you drove,

parked in front of your older brother’s house.

He texted you at 7:30 in the morning,

telling you that he’s up if you want to come over.

The truth is, if it was up to you,

you would prefer to sleep until noon.

But you are back home for two weeks only.

Sleep is one of the things you have to sacrifice for now.

Your brother is inside, expecting you to call

so he can open the gate.

But you decided to sit here,

inside the car your other brother lent you,

AC on,

not yet 9am,

the temperature already close to 40 degrees.

It’s been two days since you arrived back home.

You have slept little,

eaten little,

and seen more people than you did in Scotland

for the past six months.

You tell yourself it’s only temporary.

That you need to focus on the joy,

the joy of being surrounded by people who love you

and have missed you.

You remind yourself that soon you will be back in Glasgow.

That there is a future for you there,

a path that is unfolding,

one that you are excited about.

You need to remind yourself of that.

Otherwise the overwhelm will find you.

Call your brother.

Ask him to open the gate.

He has been waiting for you for months.

You call.

The gate opens.

You turn off the engine and step out.

It’s so hot.

You pass the stone path to the front door.

Your brother is standing there, waiting.

He gestures toward the garden.

He likes showing you how well the olive tree is doing -

the one you gave him.

He tells you he spent the morning trimming it

with his young daughter.

He often sends you pictures.

He loves it.

Or does he love you?

You hug,

and he guides you toward the kitchen.

He makes you breakfast.

He ate already, he says.

His wife and boys are still sleeping.

You sit at the dining table.

Present yet detached.

Tired yet optimistic.

Wanting to be there for him.

To hear him talk about what he likes.

To be the sister who understands him.

He loves you.

You have no doubt of that.

He has shown it in many ways.

You are grateful.

He tells you he is travelling to London for work in two days.

You are disappointed.

He is one of the main reasons you came back.

He has been calling you in Scotland.

Every week, or every other week.

Asking when will you be back.

Saying how much he misses you.

And now he is leaving.

Travelling to the country you just came from.

You sit there eating the eggs he made.

You love his cooking.

You wonder how he made the omelette so fluffy.

You finish eating while listening to him talk.

Then he takes you to the living room.

He brings tea.

Peach tea he bought from Japan.

You are not used to the flavour.

It’s too sweet.

You drink it regardless.

His wife joins.

Then his daughter.

Then his boys.

Three boys, all grown now.

Everyone seems happy to see you.

Happy to hear briefly about your life abroad.

How many more years left for your PhD?

In the past 48 hours you have been asked this

by everyone you saw.

They want you back.

The questions are never:

what are you writing about.

Do you like your apartment.

Are you happy there.

It’s always:

when will you finish.

When will you be back.

Back home.

Your nephew said something that almost made you cry.

He asked when you would be back next.

You said December.

Six months from now.

Six months without seeing your face.

Can you try to come back before?

You sat there listening to everyone talk.

Watching them in their household.

Their days, the school, the work,

the life they live.

You couldn’t help but feel it -

living at the margins of their life.

The margins of a family dynamic.

A mundane day.

Their life continues.

For now you are a visitor.

In two weeks you will go back to yours.

Your apartment. Your rhythm. Your life.

Sitting there, you couldn’t help but wish

for the day everyone else would live

at the margins of your life.