I waded through those heaving sheaths of wheat. Open heart, clogged head. A few days ago I found out you are not my real brother and it is your blood that is pure.
Our parents chose me well. Colouring, in eyes, of skin, was consistent with theirs. Two blues couldn't make a brown - right? So my copper hair and azure eyes secured the lie that gave me acceptance and substance of who I was. Never ever questioned. Until now.
Why couldn't I work it out? You, Mathew, with your matinee features, ease of tanning, your confidence roaring, and me with my plain face, pasty skin and placid nature. How could we share the same genes? My protector, my shield. You were my hero and I often felt like your bane.
Father told me in that hospital room before he died, that I have a birth mother out there somewhere. Knowing you now live so far away, I think he got scared for old quiescent me. I have no one else. I understand this revelation I was never to find out, but with mum gone, he panicked. This helped his passing, no secrets, no pain, no linger. Just peace.
So, I'll see you tomorrow and together we'll arrange the funeral. I can't believe it's been 13 years and you haven't married! That was expected of me too, but virtual recluses aren't likely to taste matrimony. I'm surprised at you, though. All the girls that wanted to be my friend just to get closer to you! My handsome big brother........
Before you head back, Mathew, will you trek through the wheat field with me? Remember how we used to take that shortcut home and risked time and again, the rage of the farmer? But the beauty of that field, the performance that captivated, was when the swallows circled us, speed and angle perfect, catching the winged insects we disturbed while paving our golden route. You told me they only appeared to those with pure hearts. No liars, cheats or fakers would ever be encircled. Only those who truly feel love. What will our chances be? Will your protective shadow ever be standing behind mine again?
I bit my lip yesterday and tasted the blood as it filled my mouth. Yours would taste no different, if the swallows ever misjudged the dive and speared your heart. Welcome home, Mathew.
