The quiet hum of the air conditioner, the steady beep of a heart monitor, and the tension of ten years' worth of unsaid words filled the hospital room.
Giorgio was motionless, thinner than I had recalled, and his eyes were deep, sunken hollows. Unsure if he would even want to see me, I stood clumsily in the doorway. Then he raised his head, his eyes dancing with confusion for a moment, then recognition.
"Vrendi" he said in a voice that was hardly audible above a whisper. I gripped my bag until my knuckles hurt, as if it contained all the years we had lost.
"I....I....didn't think you you would want me here." I muttered slowly.
He gave a small smile. "I didn't think you would show up either."
Not a word from one to the other in so many years. We had stopped communicating ten years prior, following Mother's funeral.
One reckless argument. A door slammed. A decade of quiet. Ten years of unanswered texts, missed birthdays, and secondhand news.
I stepped closer, drawing up a chair next to his bed.
I said, "You look... different."
"You too and still as obstinate."
I laughed, a gasping laugh.
"Remember the fight we had?"
"Every day."
I blinked, “Me too.”
He shifted, wincing. Instinctively, I extended my hand to assist him in adjusting his pillow, and our hands touched for the first time in a decade.
I whispered, "I thought you hated me."
"I believed you detested me."
Both of us chuckled quietly. The rasp and the fragility in his voice were painful to hear. I pointed to the IV tubes and his pallid skin, saying, "I didn't come just because of… this." "I wanted to get in touch with you a thousand times."
"So, why didn't you?"
"Because I was afraid you wouldn't pardon me."
Giorgio shut his eyes. "I wasn't waiting for an apology, I was waiting for you."
Rather than being cold, the silence between us grew warmer. Tears welled up as I glanced at the bare walls, the unopened fruit basket on the table, and then one photo of him and Mother, taken a few months before she died.
My voice caught in my throat. "You kept that photo."
"I have never stopped missing her."
"Me too!" He reached for my hand once more, his' trembling.
"You know, she would be upset with us, like she wasted all of the love she gave us on pride."
With tears in my eyes, I nodded. "She often said that we had more in common than we ever realized."
He grinned. "One stubborn heart, two hot heads."
I looked at him, really looked. My older brother, my hero as a child. When we first walked to school, the boy held my hand. When I scraped my knees, the teenager carried me. But I allowed the man to become a stranger. I wept silently and wished I could turn back the hands of time, wished I had the power of hindsight, to never have had to go through what I was going through.
"How much time do you have?" I asked in a quivering voice, and as much as I feared, I wanted the answer, to know how much time I've got to make amends.
He spoke in a heart-rending voice. "Weeks, according to doctors. A month, perhaps."
I took a deep breath. "Now I'm here." We sat quietly and tried to heal in any way possible.
At last, I said, "I apologize for the years we lost, I apologize for not trying harder." Then I took out an old cassette player from my bag, the one in which we recorded our goofy skits as children.
With wide eyes, he asked, "You still have that?"
Grinning despite my tears, I nodded.
"I brought our old tapes with me so we could listen.
And we did.
The room was filled with laughter for the next one hour, including awkward jokes, kiddie's tunes, and Giorgio's voice breaking in a puberty-hit rendition of "Simply The Best."
We chuckled until I started crying and he started coughing. I stayed throughout that night and watched his discomfort as he tried to sleep. I drew the spare cot closer and held his hand.
Subsequent nights, I was by his side, closing in on the decade of separation, we talked about everything and nothing. We talked about Mother, about his regrets, about mine. About the lives we created without each other, about everything.
As the sun went down one evening and threw gold across his bed, he turned to me.
"Do you believe that things would have turned out differently if we had spoken sooner?"
"I'm not sure," I replied. "But I know for sure that you wouldn't have traveled this road alone, I would have been here all along."
Slowly, he nodded. "Isn't it funny? The sound of hindsight is loud, louder than all of our quiet."
I gave him a forehead kiss.
"But at least we found our way back to each other."
Two weeks later, Giorgio was gone forever.
I buried him with the cassette player, the photo of Mother, and a letter that I never had the opportunity to read out loud.
Now I write to him frequently. And every time I talk or laugh, I remember the silence we let develop and how beautiful it was when we broke it.
But it still hurts so bad when I remember the silence that went on for too long.
All images were generated using AI.
I am
@edith-4angelseu and thank you for stopping by my neighbourhood.
