I had a brother, once.

I now live happily with my husband and daughter and speak to no immediate family members of my own at all, in order to keep us safe and mentally healthy, to be free from their toxicity and abuse.

But I had a brother, once.

I was born specifically, deliberately, to be my brother’s keeper. He has developmental disabilities as well as mental health issues, and my job from the time I could walk and talk was to take care of him. I was bound to him in ways that people with normal sibling relationships could never understand.

We never got along, and as one adult considering him as another adult to have in my life, he’s not someone I want around, he’s rather an asshole (for various reasons, some of which are not his fault). Ninety nine percent of the time, I am perfectly happy and at peace without him.

But he was my brother, once.

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, begins tomorrow at sundown. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are collectively known as the High Holidays, a time to reflect on the year that has passed, to consider our shortcomings and wrongdoings and seek forgiveness. It’s a time to take stock of our lives.

Well, I’m taking stock, and I feel like I’m missing a limb. If I let myself truly feel the pain of my brother’s absence, it physiologically feels like I’ve lost my legs. He’s always been so much an irrevocable part of me that letting myself feel that loss gives me an idea of what it’s like to have phantom limb syndrome.

The High Holidays are a heavy time, all the more so with the upcoming anniversary of the most brutal and deadly attack on Jews since the Holocaust, the anniversary of Hamas’ 10/7/23 attack on Israel. That would be enough, without also carrying the weight of my brother’s absence. It’s been harder to take steps. It’s been harder to go forward. My knees want to give out. My feet hurt.

I had a brother, once.

But now, he is G-d knows where, and I am here. And here, but for the grace of G-d, go I.