Ah, siblings! That mysterious, fascinating, and often exasperating phenomenon that occurs when two (or more) human beings are born of the same mother, raised by the same father, grow up in the same house, yet end up being the living antithesis of one another.
Who are siblings, you might ask? They are your first existential sparring partners, your most improbable playmates, and the keepers of your childhood’s most embarrassing secrets. They’re the ones who witnessed your first falls, your first blunders, and who might just use them against you at any given moment. They are the custodians of photographic evidence of your most questionable haircuts or dubious eighties outfits. In short, they are a living historical memory, with a strong tendency towards emotional blackmail.
What do siblings share? Well, the bathroom, for starters. And if you’re lucky, perhaps a few worn-out clothes.
But beyond the walls of the same bedroom or the single television, siblings share a history. A history made of grandparents who tell the same old jokes, of aunts and uncles who pinch your cheeks, of mountain trips with dawn awakenings, of made-up neologisms to tease each other, of first days of school, of accidentally broken vases, of silences and chatter. Siblings who breathed the same air, found themselves within the same family dynamics, learned to decipher the same silences.
Siblings who shared joys but also the weight of unsaid expectations, who witnessed each other’s attempts to navigate the world. Witnesses to when things go well, but also witnesses to when things don’t go well and the one you’ve always had by your side as a travel companion sometimes falls behind, struggling.
The paths that were once united begin to diverge. Arguments over the remote control transform into discussions about the meaning of life, global economics, or, more simply, about who should pay the gas bill – or, more often still, the arguments simply cease.
You look at each other and say, “Did we really grow up in the same house?”
It’s at that moment that the awareness of one’s individuality clashes with the discovery that, despite having common roots, you have blossomed in completely different ways. At first, you were siblings, but then you become strangers. Indeed, perhaps to truly blossom and go out into the world, a separation from that very history, of which siblings are witnesses and embodiment, might be necessary. But the past cannot be forgotten, erased, or lived as if it never existed, and siblings help you maintain that thread with who you were to truly realize who you have become.
And so, you find each other again. And the magic happens once more. You recognize in the other not just the child with whom you shared a room, but the adult they have become, with their experiences, their victories, and their scars. Every time your sibling reaches a milestone, every time a new version of him or her “is born,” that sparring partner who used to test you reappears. It’s as if you’re reborn a little too.
This idea of siblinghood can extend to every relationship, to every person. It would be wonderful to achieve it even with one’s own parents: when fathers (and mothers) stop wanting you as an extension of themselves, stop seeing you as just a younger, naive, and foolish version of them. If parents become figures with whom you can interact as equals, you become “siblings” in a sense.
Ultimately, being siblings is a relationship built on continuous interest. It’s a constant renewal, every time the other “is reborn,” every time they present a new facet, a new idea, a new dream. It’s accepting that we are equal because we come from the same source, but we are irremediably and wonderfully different. And perhaps it is precisely in this dance between equality and difference that the greatest beauty of siblinghood resides.
And then, who else would lend you their favorite shirt, knowing they’ll never see it again?
Maria Giubettini
Leave a Reply