When I was a child, I had the closest bond with my older brother. Just two years apart, he was my first best friend, my role model, and the person I looked up to the most. Growing up in a household where my dad abused my mom, my brother became my anchor in a turbulent sea, my constant playmate in a world filled with uncertainty and fear.
I idolized my brother, admiring his intelligence, quick wits and adventurous spirit. I emulated his every move, wanting to be just like him. This admiration led me to grow up with a tomboyish persona, embracing his rough and tumble ways as my own. Can you imagine a little girl who wanted to be more like her brother instead of being a spoilt brat princess in a fairytale? 😂
One vivid memory stands out from our childhood escapades. Sneaking into our father's storeroom, we stumbled upon cans of colorful paint that beckoned us to play. In our innocent curiosity, we ended up doused in paint, resembling walking rainbows. Our mother's exasperated scolding sent us fleeing to a nearby field where we found solace among grazing buffaloes, our laughter drowning out her reprimands. Oh how silly and funny to think back about this memory, us covered in dried paint running around on the grass field naked because our mother scolding us to strip to clean ourselves 🫣😂
During that time, my brother and I shared the same favorite TV show. I vividly recall our love for Doraemon, our first anime. It aired every Saturday evening--or was it Sunday? Our fondness for Doraemon was so intense that we often engaged in imaginative role-playing. One of us would assume the role of Doraemon while the other portrayed Nobita. However, most of the time, I ended up being Nobita, the dimwit, as I felt my brother better suited the intelligent character of Doraemon. But it all didn't matter because it seems my brother was happier to become Doraemon than Nobita. And most importantly we truly had our fun.
Fast forward few years later, on my first day of primary school, I tagged along with my brother, relying on his familiarity with the route. Unexpectedly, our usual pathway was blocked, prompting a detour through unfamiliar terrain. In a moment of inspired intuition, I spotted a small hidden shortcut, small enough for our small bodies to squeeze in, just next to the blocked pathway, earning a surprised glance and a heartfelt compliment from my brother: "Hey, you're actually pretty smart."
That simple praise meant the world to my 7 year old self, a validation of my abilities and a confirmation of my worth in my brother's eyes. It sustained me through days, weeks, and years, a cherished memory that brightened my darkest moments.
And now as we grew older, the inevitable distance between us widened, pulling us apart into different paths and separate lives. Yet, the memories of those carefree, paint-splattered days and words of encouragement lingered, reminders of a childhood marked by sibling camaraderie and unwavering support. Though time may have scattered us to the winds, the bond forged in the innocence of youth remains etched in my heart, a testament to the profound influence of a brother cherished and forever missed.
Me and my brother.
Me, my brother and my mother
Yes, that is correct. That is the field where we ran around naked, drenched in dried paint. 🫣🤣
Above are some pictures of me with my brother and mother taken from our old family photo album. I hope it gives you a glimpse of my childhood in this story. I know it's not much, but they meant a lot. Thank you for reading my memoir.
