65 - The Keeper Who Became a Guard

My brother. 

He is family. 

I should be able to say whatever comes to my mind, 

to be honest, to speak freely.

But that dynamic changed long ago. 

For the first few years, 

it was like talking to a stranger. 

I was too scared of saying the wrong thing, 

too scared of triggering his depression, 

too scared of evoking any emotion at all.

So I chose my words carefully. 

I filtered everything I said. 

I wonder how it looked from his point of view.

Perhaps I looked like a prison guard, 

choosing words the way guards speak to inmates

detached, 

controlled, 

never showing emotion. 

I must have looked like an evil person.

It has gotten better now, 

but the resentment remains. 

Many times he asked me,

 “Why won’t you let me die? Just let me die.”

Haunting words one should never hear from a loved one. 

Haunting words carved into memory, 

etched deeper than silence.

I once thought I was a lighthouse keeper, 

shining light for those in need. 

But in the years of fear and filtered words, 

I became a prison guard instead

watching, 

controlling, 

and losing the very thing I meant to protect.