My Brother's Book

Clara sat upright in her bed. She leaned heavily on the pillows, wistfully penning a poem about her brother.

‘Oh holier than thou

You leave your mark

A snail trail across my years of growth

Convinced and convicted

We stare across the void

Of nature

Universe

Through lives spent in recovery

Have we, though?

Recovered?

Each of us choosing a salve of different colors

A collection of beliefs that forge

Our way forward

We wonder

We reach across

And yet, and yet

Please…do not pray for me.

I've never shared my beliefs or

Wants, or desires. No. Not with you

The judge, the victim, the true believer.

Your book, it’s cover shields you from any need

For science, for fact, for authenticated history

Your faith is all you need, you say

As you pray for me…the supposed lost soul.

Praying for me…for things I may not want, and certainly do not need.

It’s the high you get.

Addicted to the holier than thou, so you can

See yourself as closer to God than all others.

God. Wow. The Supreme Being whose dream we enact

Is uniquely yours to understand…for me.

My tears no longer arrive.

You, who are lost to me

Like victims of a tragedy we are stupified

By each others inability to show love in a form we can receive

My book…the histories of the ages. The facts that are recorded.

The science that is verified…

Are as lost on you as the life of a child who has died

Died due to the beliefs of parents who don’t vaccinate

A choice. Like yours.

Your book will have me burning in the fires of hell for eternity,

simply because

I choose to believe a different story.

A story of unconditional love.

Unconditional acceptance. Unconditional, un condition all.

No. I do not place conditions on my love for you.

I do not pray for you

I do not have wants or desires for you

I see you, and I recoil

The overly emotional drowning in the

Simplest aspects of life.

Like an expectation and unfathomable need

To be seen and accepted

As the wisest and closest to God.

Projecting, always. Accusing me, always

Of the very behavior you, yourself cannot control.

You have more of my pity than

the love I struggle to generate for you

Once an easy and welcome reality, is now a sad reminder of what happens

When a soul spends more time thinking and wishing and wanting

Than it does in healing, forgiving and accepting us

Without conditions, on who we need to be for you

In order to earn your love.

We used to agree; God=love and love=God

For me, it’s all science.

My atoms and molecules floating and vibrating in an endless universe whose

Substrata is only love…where all matter can spring from and without conditions, vibrate freely

And oh…my heart does hurt.

Your pained expressions as you struggle to show us all

How much better you are because you, alone, are the patriarch of your world.

Alone. I’m so sorry your book has failed you in this way.

I am so sorry. My love has failed you in this way.

I am sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.

This, the Ho Oppo Ono prayer

That the REAL wisdom carriers offer to us.

I am not that.

I am only this.

Your sister.

Whose words fail to encompass the depth or breadth

Of love, that can never be replaced or inspired by any book.

And yet your book…in Revelations, speaks of the beast, the dragon and the antichrist.

A story you embrace as fully as the Trump train will allow.

Proudly you watch as the clown car pulls into Washington

To burn our country to the ground.

Gleefully vindicated, those who wish the armageddon on us all… eagerly point and predict

As innocent lives are sacrificed

On the altar of someone else's book.

And yet and yet

I forgive you

I forgive you

I forgive you.

And still, you will not believe it.

Why?

Because you are not the forgiver, only the forgiven.

You, the forgiven for the brutal torture of a Sun of God

A Son of God. The male principle is directly incapable of giving birth, and therefore truly understanding the value of a life.

The man…who is completely incapable of understanding the pain, the trauma and the indignity of delivery.

The child of any Supreme Being they choose.

Un conditional love. The Mother. For her children.

You cannot learn this from any book.

And I am so so sorry

That this is so true, and especially for you…

The one who would be so much holier than thou

Yet who will never understand the truth…

Love

Without conditions.’

~ Clara woke up with a start. Before the first chirp of morning rays, before the amber glow of forming clouds, before she knew she was awake… the words still echo; Forgive, forgive, forgive. She glanced at the clock beside her bed. 4 am. He’s coming today, she remembered.

Realizing it was likely her bladder that awakened her, she heaved herself out of her covers, and slipped into her fuzzy bunny slippers. Waddling her way down the hall, she chuckled at herself.

It has been at least two months since she was able to paint her toenails, let alone see them over the top of her massive round belly.

“Oooff” she landed loudly onto the toilet seat. “Uuuuhhhhmmm.” Going pee had become almost as pleasurable as the orgasm that preceded her current condition. She had hoped it would become one of the best nights of her life. It all started with chocolate and oranges. It had concluded with completely unplanned sex. Great sex, mind you, but completely unplanned.

Suddenly Willy flashed before her eyes. Willy and his damn book, she thought. What a buzz kill. Her heart dropped as she listened to herself tinkle into the toilet water. Well, I still have time to prepare, she thought to herself.

The chasm between she and her brother had been widening for a while now. The gaping maw of projection and misunderstanding. Her honest attempts to draw them closer, only to be smacked away by an assumption of mal intent. A chasm that widened with every mean comment heard through her newsfeed on the computer, by a president who likely would have forced a child upon her, ready or not. Well, his Maga cheering section would have, certainly.

Clara pulled down a few squares of toilet paper, thoughtlessly drying herself, pulling up her panties, and “ooooffff,” she grunted, pushing herself to stand. He’s going to want to pray for the baby, she thought. How do I avoid hugging him? She wondered.

Ever since she was a young teenager, Willy’s leering eyes and too-tight hugs really bothered her. He is younger, yet assigns himself as her patriarch, obviously wishing for more. She remembered her sharp rebuke. “They call that incest, Willy.”

Today she resists the urge to turn on the news. Always worried she will be forced to view that orange sphincter face who calls himself our president. She wonders how many women in this country…especially those who have actually been sexually assaulted, are able to tolerate his image showing up everywhere.

And here we are. In a world where her little brother seems to think this guy is some kind of second coming. Clara waddles and shuffles her way back to bed. She hefts herself back onto the pillow laden headboard. She caresses her belly and coos at the infant inside.

It all started with chocolate and oranges. But she hadn’t said “yes.” He just assumed she wanted him that way. Was it the chocolate? Had she sent the wrong message? Does every man assume that sex is going to happen simply because you are having a lovely, chocolate induced evening together?

He was a pleasant enough fellow. Attractive in his own right. Nicely spaced green eyes. Arching eyebrows with just a thin lick of grey in his dirty blonde hair. But she hadn't planned on having sex with him. And clearly, she hadn’t resisted effectively. Surprised by her own lack of either resistance or outrage, she understood. Within her depths the ache for motherhood had prevailed.

She smiled wistfully at the little lumpy foot moving under her hands. Ever since then, she’s had to deal with Willy’s judgement. His accusations of carelessness. His admonitions to marry this guy she barely knew. God I wish Mom were still here, she thought.

The sky outside her window was shifting from that predawn crisp of transparent windowpane grey to the chitter of morning birds readying for a full out song. Trinity, she thought to herself. Yes. Perhaps the name Trinity will appease Willy enough to not harangue me about my lack of his form of faith. Perhaps one day he will once again see me as more than just the Eve who listened to the snake in the garden.

“Ho Opo Ono” Clara whispered to herself. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.”

Bemused by the notion she had even done anything she needed to apologize for…Clara released a long, deep sigh.