I began to write on the wide variety of themes that this article presents, during which a number of images and references came to mind. However, upon further thought, I believe this story to be as rich as an abstract work of art. I never name my paintings for example, and I never discuss what motivates them. I believe that art should not be corralled in this way because it is so open to interpretation and personal injection. This story ultimately made me feel that way, and I would like to share it without too much shepherding. Of course, I had to title the blog post and I did not want to waste at least some of the images that came to mind, so I have shared at least that much.

To me, this story is like a poem to the soul and senses; it speaks to our views of the world and our place in it. I believe it to be that deep and the implications and drivers, that unanswerable. As such, I will leave it to you to take from it whatever you will. I enjoyed reading the varying perspectives in the comment section of the article, and would encourage you to do the same. It would also be great to get your comments to whatever extent you feel like sharing. I believe that however we feel about it and its themes, this story clearly delineates; the past, present and future, while keeping them integrally tied. We decide the extent to which we believe all three are related and determine outcomes, based on our presence within the matrix of time (past, present and future) further divided by privilege or its absence.

(Just in case this link ever dies, google: “Switched at birth: Son born to rich parents sues hospital after life of poverty”).

“Kareem” means “generous” and “giving”. One of the best gifts I’ve ever received was a simple head nod upward from my brother, Kareem, an acknowledgement that I had been heard.

I told my brother that I loved him as he lay, wide awake and seemingly recovering, in a hospital bed. He was in good spirits. We spoke about the book of jokes and riddles I had chosen for him with permission from Ms Warren at the school library. It was quite a big book, so I would have been surprised if he was half way through (I wish I knew the name of that book). When we spoke, he mentioned that he’d read the whole thing. Twice. Overnight.

It was Wednesday, November 29, 1995 around 7:30am, right before school. The typewritten note that I’d included in the pages of the book celebrated his not having to go to school or do dishes. I waited for our mother and the nurse to walk away so that no one would hear, but him. I came back to his bed after a little deliberation and distance then I said it.

This is something for which I’m most grateful, not knowing (or being able to fathom) that it would be the last time I’d ever see him alive. It was not easy for the newly 17 year old me to express my feelings, but I made myself admit it to Kareem, my first sibling who’d recently turned ten. I thought I’d see him the next day, but I didn’t. I thought I’d see him the day after that, but that was the last day.

I’m really glad that I said it because to this day I still believe that it’s the best decision I’ve ever made in my life. After all these years, just knowing that still makes me cry.