It’s always been hard for me to talk about my brother.
I remember telling one of my friends that his name was Seán. I remember detailing how the name was traditional in my family. My grandad’s name was Seán, there’s my Uncle Seán, and there’s my brother Seán Óg. The Óg is Irish and means young. We called my Uncle, Seán Mor, meaning big Seán, and Seán Óg for young Seán. I remember telling my friend his name because I felt I always distanced him in our conversations by calling him “my brother”.
It’s a weird thing I started noticing in my correspondences, where I would place a subtle distance or be all too careful about revealing a detail deemed too intense for the particular setting or circumstance.
“His name is Seán!” I would hear myself rattle off in some deep recess of my mind.
It’s hard for me to talk about Seán because there’s this strange balancing act I have to play when I even think about him. There’s so much to unpack. First and foremost he is my brother. Even before that I suppose, he is the sweetest, kindest, most caring, fiercely intelligent, stubbornly stoic, and incredibly strong human soul I’ve ever met.
“You have to believe in his soul,” I can hear my mom gently whispering in my ear.
I remember writing this story about Seán. This same one you’re reading now. By the time I had written the words, “It’s hard for me to talk about my brother,” he had shown up at my door where I was living – in a greasy frat house in the annex in Toronto. He had shown up unannounced like he had heard me writing about him or something. I remember the look of horror I’m sure crossed my face as my roommate Gaelen came to tell me he was waiting for me downstairs.
He had found me.
The past truly does catch up with you it seems and I’d been running from it for some time.
For many years I had been trying to hide from all the difficult things that can come with the word family. I’d set up boundaries for myself. I’d decided I wouldn’t even come home for Christmas. I’d put my oxygen mask on and ensure I could breathe well and ready before trying to run around putting out fires and inhaling smoke.
But here my brother was. Looking rough as ever. Head shaven and shaking. A gentle tremor, almost imperceptible. He needed a place to stay. He was frantic. Please if I could just let him stay the night. He looked around the dirty palace that I called my residence and he laughed with an old familiar smile.
I brought him upstairs and let him hang out in my room while I ran downstairs to panic to my roommates Jim and Gaelen about the situation. It brings me so much shame to think of the way I treated him that night.
I remember telling him to sleep on a dirty mattress in another room. I remember him being disgusted by some cat piss or something gross in the mattress and him coughing and holding his nose, quietly pleading to let him just sleep in my room, he would sleep on the floor.
I did let him in my room and we made a makeshift “mattress” on the floor, but it brings me great pain to think of the return of a gesture on my part, or more accurately, the lack of return. A great chance to level the debt of the little brother, to the man now struggling, a man whom without I would not be the person I am today.
A little boy wakes in the night scared of screams coming from his own mind. A terrible nightmare. Sweaty and afraid and running to the only place he knew he could find support, his older brother’s room. He busts through the door, and although Seán is angry and annoyed at first, his instincts for compassion quickly take the wheel and he whispers softly, “It’s ok you can stay here.” Quietly lifting his blanket and tucking it over the child and sharing his bed with him for the night.
Two dogs and two brothers set out on a walk one day. To describe the dogs as individuals would also help to identify the brothers as they both shared similar characteristics. The smaller of the two dogs was lighter in both its hair colour and demeanour and darted about from one side of the sidewalk to the other with a random consistency. He was a rambunctious and skittish little blonde mutt and he got along fine for the most part, so long as he wasn’t pestering the larger of the two, which most days, he was. The larger of the two dogs carried himself with the dignified air of one who has seen the world truly and unflinchingly, and understood the hardened exterior it took to survive in it. He was sluggish and slower in comparison to his younger and brighter compatriot, but had sharp eyes and was steady and keenly aware of his place in the world. He wore black. A black coat with touches of grey to hint at his experience and seniority amongst the bouncing blonde pups he considered himself responsible for.
There are times in one’s life greater than one’s life. Times that truly exist beyond the time itself. Transcendent moments if you will. This day, so long ago, was one of those moments. It’s hard to recall the exact date, the year, or even the age I can’t be sure of, but I know the four of us were there. Two dogs and two brothers out on a walk to the beach.
Looking back through the sepia lens only a childhood memory of a sunny day can bring, I see us walking. I see us walking down the street making our way down towards the beach. It’s all this amber tinted memory can offer, one image of two dogs and two brothers walking down Warden Avenue in the sunshine. We were walking down the southern portion of Warden. South of Kingston road where the street begins, or ends, depending on how you look at it I suppose. We had stopped momentarily to allow the two dogs to unburden their bowels on a shady portion of the sidewalk. We were looking across the street and commenting on a cream coloured stucco house with a grey mustang parked in the driveway. We knew the kid who lived there. He was one of our Dad’s kids.
Our father worked at a school but was not necessarily a teacher. From what I could discern at the time he worked at a special school for “special kids” who got kicked out of their original schools and couldn’t go there anymore. He helped kids who didn’t have families, who got abused, who punched their teachers, or threw desks and chairs at them.
I wondered what my Dad hoped for in us in that moment. To try to help as well? Try to show people along, to model how to appropriately engage with our respected and loving community? It was almost laughable. We were hardly the picturesque family ourselves. Far from it actually. But I wondered too what weight my Dad carried with his work with kids. What weight he wished, if any, to share to ease a load becoming all too much for one man to bear.
With the bowel business sorted it was time to do the decent thing as pet owners. My older brother laughed and removed a bag from his saggy grey-black jeans and tossed it in my general direction. I placed the plastic bag onto my fingers and around my hand like a glove and began to reach down for the warm poop pile awaiting immediate disposal. The two dogs sat lapping air in the shade and smirking through their teeth at a secret victory only they could understand.
I scraped the bag against the stained sidewalk then quickly reached it up and over to mockingly throw the poo in my brother’s face. My brother landed a swift kick to my shin and punch to my stomach which left me mustering every ounce of energy I had to hold the poop bag away from my own torso and not let it infect my clothing or person. The two dogs, especially the blonde pup, was excited by this brief melee and took off in direction of the beach.
My hand gripped tighter on the poop bag but loosened significantly on my leashed hand and soon enough the blonde pup was bounding freely down the sidewalk towards the dead end trail that led down to the beach.
I reacted quickly and bolted after the pup as my brother’s many obscenities and insults faded into the distance. I ran whilst simultaneously folding the poop bag back in on itself to keep my hand clear of touching such an atrocity with my bare skin. I sprinted for about 5 houses before quickly tossing the bag in a local blue bin and continuing to chase after the pup who had practically reached the clearing leading to the beach trail. Panic began to leave my body and mind as I realized the danger was mostly avoided and the pup was now in a leash-off area with no risk of cars or vehicles. I slowed my sprint to a jog, and then to a walk, and sat on a protruding storm drain to wait out the small pup, or wait for the older dog and brother to join me on the journey down to the beach.
The “trail” down could hardly be categorized as such. It was more of a slanted bluff, with winding mud rivers, and old broken pieces of concrete. Tilted trees bent out of sand dunes and old discarded pieces of brick became a safe-ish passage for a particularly steep decline. It was an active erosion zone. Part of me marvelled at natures resistance and chuckled with the knowledge of one place and hidden piece of the city, that was actually getting smaller.
Not much else is remembered about the travel down. I only remember the once soft orange glow of a childhood summer day, now quickly changing to a stormy grey and having to abruptly alter our walk plans the closer and closer we got to the water. The final dip down to the beach was a steep and lackluster one to say the least. It gave even the dogs trouble as the skittish blonde pup whined each time he was unsure of a particular dropdown or needed reassurance of which direction to take. We walked, hopped, and slid down the muddy slope as the wind picked up around us and began whipping branches against one another and tearing leaves right off of them in the process.
I recall a hurricane. One in New York or somewhere close by enough that when it passed through Toronto, down near the water, we could definitely feel it. We were feeling it, the remnants at least, as by the time we got down to the beach and cleared the trees from the trail, we felt the wind intensify. The water from the lake was almost all the way up to the tree line and it was as far up and as close to the bluff as I’d ever seen. The wind almost blew me over entirely and you could hear the blonde pup’s wails carry up and over the hills as the wind blew onward. The older dog and brother remained stolid by each other’s side and scanned the landscape carefully for possible danger. This would not make for much of a beach day.Just then the older, shadow like, shepherd left my brothers side and leapt beyond the treeline, fleeing to the other side of the rocky barrier that separated one beach coast from another. He ran barking along the rocks, down to the next beach over and began barking and running to the water, gesturing his head to a flailing object out in the lake. The skies were grey and the wind was howling as my older brother stumbled up and over the rocky barrier to join the barking dog in his pursuit of the splashing enigma.
The water was acting strange. One minute it would be as close to the tree line as to almost touch the trunks of the trees, and the next the lake would recede 15 or 20 feet out, in swift ebbs and flows similar to that of a reoccurring rapid change of tide. I ran over with the small blonde pup and joined my brother and the shepherd on the second beach. I looked out into the lake and adjusted my eyes to the sight of a swan. A single swan flapping frantically, turning, and struggling against the changing of the tides and the crashes of the waves. Both dogs were barking in its direction but both were too wary of the surging swells to get much closer.
The swan was sprawled out all bent out of shape with a twisted neck and crooked wing about 15 feet from the shore line. When the water pulled back, it would take the swan further out and it would twist and turn in entirely new directions. We acted quickly, as if without thought. I pulled off my shoes and socks and threw them in the direction of the rocks as my brother did the same. He began to roll up the ankles of his pants as I had already darted into the water and began to run in direction of the swan. The shallow tide had returned and brought the swan closer once again as my brother slowly splashed his way through the now knee-high water to join me in my efforts.
Not much thought was put into this process but the following events are pretty hard to describe. Time stopped. There was no sound. The dogs ceased their barking and the splashing of the water dulled to a mute tone where all I could focus on was my brother’s lips moving and his arms and mine scooping under into the water to lift the struggling swan up and out. We lifted the swan easily in the water, but it became much heavier in the cool air under the blasting winds once completely out of it. The swan was gracious. I have honestly never had a parallel experience with animals in my life to this day. It was grateful. It was serene as we carried it and rested it’s long neck against our shoulders and another incredible thing happened. As we approached the barking dogs and sound returned to my ears, their barking had ceased. Aside from a few initial curious sniffs, they let the swan be. The pup leapt forward and ahead as if to clear a safe path onward and the stoic black shepherd stayed close by our sides as if guarding our guardianship over the swan.
Again, not much else is remembered about the journey back up the cliff to Warden Avenue. My memory gets hazy during the transitions. But I know the dogs were part of it, they were partners in our rescue effort. I know not many words were said in the moments before the decision was made to go after the swan in the water, I know not many words were said as we carried it up. You could hear the wind in the trees, the scurrying feet of the blonde pup now fearlessly leading the way back up, you could hear the persistent pants of the old black dog now taking the rear, and making sure everyone made it up soundly. You could hear the grunts and sounds of labour as my brother and I carefully climbed each step up while carrying the load of a fully grown wet swan. And you could hear the gentle cooing of the thankful swan and its pulsating breaths slow to rhythmic and steady ones as the winds and the waters slowed as well. The hurricane now continuing its journey and conditions subsiding.
When we reached the top of the hill however, the skies were still grey. Almost immediately upon reaching the top, we were greeted by 3 or 4 astounded young adult backpackers who glanced from us, to the dogs, to the swan, in similar astonishment. We quickly explained our situation and advised them against going down to the beach that day. We regaled them with the tales of the swan and told of how calm and affectionate it had become since we had scooped it up and taken it in. They noted our claims and validated our efforts with gentle praise and offered help and encouragement. They motioned us out of the clearing and towards their hatchback parked on Warden Avenue and explained that the amazing deed we had done was complete. They would take it from here.
Many days and years have passed since that walk to the beach so long ago. And many changes have occurred throughout them. The two dog rescue team have since left this physical realm and now only visit me in dreams. The older went first, and the younger not long thereafter. This is one of the last memories I have of them out on a walk together, with my brother and I walking them; one leash in each our hands. This is one of the last memories I have of my brother and I as well. Where we both went out and did something together, and things felt as close to “normal” as they ever have. We achieved something together that day. Something much greater than ourselves.
The all-to-brief hurricane pass over it seemed was just a sign of storms to come for my brother. His perceived chemical imbalance imprisoning him in a label far more treacherous than any physical cage. A string of diagnoses and a multitude of traumatic experiences, he is “one of those kids” in the eyes of society now. He has been in and out of the criminal justice system for much of his adult life. I fear that he has become the swan now. Flailing and helpless in an ocean of unseen, with only half the arms available to carry him home. Sometimes it feels like I don’t have the strength to lift the weight of suffering out of the water and carry it up over the hill away from the stormy shores.
The last memory I have of the swan and that day so long ago is this.
The group of young adults at the top of the bluff assured us they would drive the swan to a nearby animal hospital and their eyes never lost that look of disbelief even as they carefully scooped the swan up out of our arms and lifted it into the back of their small blue vehicle. I watched the swan as they closed the trunk of their car and turned to offer their thanks once more. I looked to see my brother and the two dogs watching the swan as well. We were leaving the moment now. We had completed our mission and our journey had come to a close. Not one of us made a sound as we watched the swan drive up Warden and turn on to Kingston road in direction of the animal hospital. I thought of how proud my father would be of what we had done, of how we had helped, of how he would appreciate the plight of carrying the weight of another’s suffering. Maybe that’s all you can do in life. Help carry people up that hill, help people fight back against the crashing waves, help people reach that next place, where more capable and compassionate people await, and hope that they make it where they need to go. That they live to see another day.
Or perhaps, more realistically, that swan that we saved that day, was an anomaly. The last surviving swan of the bevy. The last one who’s desperate cries were registered by some passerby’s all due to a completely random happenstance. Swans don’t get saved every day. In fact in all my years in the city of Toronto, I’ve only had the experience of this one swan being saved successfully.
One swan.
I was there.
I know it’s possible.
I can only hope my brother is that one swan, and that someday, in some way, someone will find him struggling amidst the crashing waves, and step in to help him up.
Or perhaps his journey has just begun. Maybe he can save himself from the depths of the unknown. Maybe he climbed all the way up that hill himself and is now growing into the adult that will heal his old wounds and find his own way back home. But I know that he won’t do it alone. Some group of passerby’s, some serendipitous encounter, a moment of magic amidst the cacophony of chaos.
“You have to believe in his soul.” I hear my mom whisper again.
I see Seán now sitting on a cross country train, looking out the window to see an eagle soaring through the Albertan Rockies. Moving fast and moving forward into a future that was always uncertain, but with a new vision of hope and love forever under his wing.