As we circle the block again looking for a parking space the opera singers aria on the radio is full rich and deep. I am singing my aria for my brother as we ease into the space and I bring him home.The singer who sings the aria doesn't get bogged down or tired. She just sings and so do I.
We are just returned home from HCMC where my brother was almost admitted into the psychiactric unit. But notthis time. I sing the aria of all the times I have been with him before and accompanied him on the long labryrinthian journey through his psyche back to feeling good again.
As I look into his face I look past the generations and see our gran pa shuffling and obsessed, speaking of Jacob in the bible... I see my father with his brilliant wit, determined to be right.. I see our mother laying on the couch in one of her disabled depressive modes.
My aria becomes tender, passionate and compassionate in turns as I hold onto my brother. Knowing I am here at this moment to bear witness to his suffering and to try to comfort him and guide him through.
There are no easy answers, but singing this internal aria and drawing help me feel that I am not falling apart too.
We keep moving through time. The ghosts of our familys troubled past lead the way.
I keep singing. I keep holding onto my brother. I keep drawing... He leads the way and I hold onto him...wishing him safe passage back to a better place.
