In a little over a day as of this writing, I’ll be holding my brother in my arms. Well… her arms, but on the physical. Him and me.
I’ve been struggling more and more lately with being cooped up, literally and figuratively, and the coop is her life. She lives in a very remote area. She sees people other than her immediate family maybe once a week.
And me? I never see anybody in meatspace. Or, more accurately, they never see me. I might be fronting on a walk, or even driving through a town, but they don’t know I’m there. They see a completely different face, gender, everything almost. The only similarities are the color of the skin, and hair, and… the eyes. Yeah, if you know me at all, you can see me in the eyes. The color’s different–mine are hazel brown, hers are blue gray–but the shape and the eyebrows and all of that’s the same.
Trouble is, nobody knows I’m there. It’s like a prison inside another prison.
So this trip, with my brother, it’s the one time a year where I can be me for days at a time and somebody knows it’s me. I can talk. I don’t like the voice, it’s too high, but it’s a physical voice. I even talked to someone on the phone recently, and they said it sounded like me. That helped to hear.
I’m still here. Me. Inside this different shell. Except the eyes.
One week a year, I can live life like a regular person.
41 hours, as of this writing, and I’ll be holding him in my arms.