Extra points to anyone guessing the pun in the title.
The first time I heard about you was in 1999. You barely existed, utterly oblivious to the world, and the world utterly oblivious to your existence. But I was 11 already, having a grown-up’s conversation with your mom and dad about your name. I thought I had had a vote – you can imagine my shock when they told me you were going to be Mihály. What you are today, who you are today. “Misi”, for short. I disliked the name. I had had a different idea in my head for my first sibling. For starters, I wouldn’t have thought there would be more of you. I wanted to get your name right. Misi felt off. It felt everything but. Surely, mom and dad were adamant – and you became Misi.
From that moment, you were my brother. My first. And, despite of some people pointing out that we are not bound by blood as much as real siblings, I’ve always taken great pride in explaining how step-siblings are equal or even superior to actual siblings. It’s the bond that matters, I argued.
I took you to and from kindergarten and school – and I locked you out of my room when I needed solitude. You bought me a Christmas present that ate up all your savings – and you wanted to hang out with all my friends when they were over. We spent 11 years together – 11 years as brothers.
Then you had to leave. I had to leave. Suddenly, there were 3000 kilometers separating the two of us – a divide that even lovers or parents hardly survive. You were just a boy, at 11, moving to the UK. I was just a boy, at 21, moving to Turkey. Who could foretell the void that this, almost impromptu set of actions leave behind? You were 12 and 13, and then 14, and then you spent some of the most defining moments of a person, eons from my attention or care. It’s not like we knew we missed something. I now know I missed it. I now sorely miss it.
For a decade, you were everything – just like your brother, and then, my brother and sister all became everything. But then, life – or my own questionable calls – ripped all of us apart.
Now I’m 33, and you are 23. We meet – rarely. We talk – often. The first decade of your life: always being there. The second decade: rarely being there. The third has now begun: I guess we are now reaching middle ground.
As for the photo: my brother Misi, 20 at the time, waiting calmly for me to take the shot. The location is probably in the Vyne.
Analog anecdotes 