To My Brother, Who Breathes Through Fire Now

You were my first friend. Before memory, before language — you were just “there”. We fought, we played, we bathed together like two scruffy kids in a photo no one took, because back then, no one did.

We were the “kleintjies” – the two youngest in a tribe of five. Eighteen months apart, but stuck like twins. Primary school. Boarding school. Day after day. Always near.

You were my naughty little brother – reckless and wild in ways that would terrify today's parents. Remember the Vaalriver after the floods? How we clung to branches between the new bridge and the old one? That wasn't a game – that was life. The kind of life we had before anyone watched us too closely.

We didn't have TV. Just a small radio humming news and weather forecasts. A gramophone playing our parents' LPs. Jim Reeves – I still hear his voice when I think of you.

We made our own toys. You had your dinky cars. We built roads in the dust. We played with my dolls, cut them up because we were the doctors — you remember that? Blaming each other when our mother was livid. We played marbles with shiny ghoens – aiming, rolling, laughing.

We had chickens. Dogs. Cats. Bunnies. I had a lamb once that moaned by the back door like a child. It vanished one day. I never asked where. Maybe I knew. Maybe I didn't want to.

You remember the day we got pissed off over something she scolded us for and decided we're going to run away – to across the street where that prickly pear bush was full of beautiful yellow ripe thorny prickly pears. We stuffed ourselves with a blanket on the ground with one of the dining room chairs to sit on. We were really constipated after that runaway.

You remember these stories better than I do – always have. That's why I want to say them again now. So you know I haven't forgotten. So you know you're still ‘my little brother’.

We were in hospital together for our tonsils – two tiny scared kids in gowns too big for our bodies. You with those oversized ears and brave little face.

Later, after high school, we shared a flat while I was at university and you worked as a waiter on a train. We were poor, tired, and young – but we had each other.

You went back to our “dorpie”, you took over Dad's garage. We stayed in touch. Always. Our children grew up at the same time. We went on holidays together. And you – always the funny one – kept making me laugh, even when life wasn't funny anymore.

Sparkling green eyes. Mischief in your voice. Teasing everyone. Lighting up rooms like someone who didn't know how to stop shining. Oh — and swearing like a trooper all the time.

And now… Now you fight for every breath. You drag oxygen behind you like a shadow. I get it. You're tired. You're done. You're sick and sick of it.

But I'm not ready. I'm selfish. I know. But I can't help it. You're starting to say goodbye. I can feel it. And I hate it.

Your children and grandchildren are on the other side of the world. But you can borrow mine. They'll love you like I do. I'll make sure of it.

I don't know who I'll be without your voice – your jokes – your completely outrageous takes on everything. I know you're tired. I know you're gasping and fading and staring into the distance with eyes that aren't yours anymore.

You are still my brother. My first friend. My last link. My home.

Please stay. Please fight a little longer. Even if it's for me. Even if it's just one more laugh. Even if it's just to remind me how to survive you when you're gone.

I love you. I miss you already. And I will never, ever be ready.