They needed each other’s assistance, like a company who, crossing a mountain stream, are compelled to cling close together, lest the current should be too powerful for any who are not thus supported. Sir Walter Scott
In their friendship they were like two of a litter that can never play together without leaving traces of tooth and claw, wounding each other in the most sensitive places. Colette
Leaving is like tearing off skin. Larry McMurtry
Eleven. Seven. Four years separating them. You’d never know it. They are teachers of one another. Best friends. Buddies. Alternatingly, they share titles: good guy, bad guy, cop, robber, hero, villain. They are comrades. Allies. Enemies. Playmates. Chums. Brothers.
As their parent, I sometimes succumb to the force of imminent doom. Perceived doom, perhaps, but as their parent, that’s all it takes. Fourteen months from now, Mr. Eleven will prepare to move to the junior high school, middle school here. For the first time, Mr. Seven will go through his school days without his rock. Oh sure, when Mr. Eleven entered first grade, Mr. Seven stayed home. There are other rocks there. Security. No pressure. Just a need to occupy the time until Eleven got home. Things change. It’s a lesson that tends violently to be learned at times. Seven’s heart is vulnerable. I hurt vicariously.
What tramples this analytical soul to a worn-bare dogpath is what is sure to accompany Eleven’s academic progression: a new comrade; perceived maturity that distorts the importance of Seven and shoulders him aside; new interests; girls. Understand that I am not a pessimist. I love, though. Some may argue that there is no difference. Come, walk with me. There is beauty in the challenge.
As their parent, I accept as my duty the role of teacher, referee, counselor, provider. I am thrilled with the job as much as I am overwhelmed by it. The impending change in my sons’ dynamic is just another step in my education, my on-the-job training. I have been here before, back when I was the trellis for another. I suppose I can be forgiven because I was a child, merely an older brother with angst of my own; but I moved hard and fast into my new, older, "cooler" world and left my brother behind. I did not look back until, seven years later, he was beyond reach. He faced incarceration but got out of that by entering the service. The gravity of the perceived rejection delineates our relationship to this day. I hope I am a better teacher for it.
I wrote of roots. I live to provide water. I want my sons to recognize in one another the nourishment of life. I want nothing to be thicker than the blood they share. I want them to understand that their meaning, their bond, never needs to be sacrificed on the pyre of their independence. I want the wisdom to bring them to this place. I seek it. It is my job. I long to be the third pea in the pod. It is the golden parachute that follows the job of parenthood. One day we will sit in the pod and laugh at the shenanigans they concocted when they were eleven and seven.
