I can probably count on one hand how many times I've seen Julian. All those times took place when I was under that age of eight years old. Paring down our relationship even further, I have two memories of actually interacting with him. One, in the back of my father's crowded van trying to have a complete conversation with Julian's broken English. The other, wading in the shallow pool of water together at the end of my slip and slide on a hot summer day in my backyard. We aren't exactly close.
I speak to Julian's father, my uncle Kevin, twice a year, tops. He calls on Christmas and sometimes around my birthday in June. His is voice meek, his speech slow. I dutifully ask how Julian is and I get a very bare bones answer.
"He's good. He's in school right now, he likes it there."
"Oh," I respond, "That's good to hear."
My Aunt Claire sends me periodical emails that include the latest picture of my cousin. Each picture is more isolated and out of context than the last. One from years ago is him pictured alone, standing by a door in a long hallway. Another shows him standing on a pile of gray cinderblocks. This is how I track Julian's development, these few and far between pictures.
My Uncle Kevin is somewhat of a secretive guy. Instead of viewing these pictures as a familial face, I see them as highly regulated, exclusive press releases. As if to say, "Here! We still have a son! Don't you remember?"
Even more bizarre is how Julian ages. He is only three months older than me, so I forget that he's no longer the shy, culture shocked four year old in Maryland but rather a seemingly well adjusted 20 year old Japanese guy. So the pictures jump so much in age, my perception and idea of who he is tends to dramatically shift with each one.
This is the latest picture of Julian I have received. Some sort of Japanese costume, I can imagine. The caption in the email simply read: "This is the latest photo of Julian Patrick Keane from Japan."
It didn't occur to me until I received the latest picture of Julian what he might think of me. To my knowledge, I don't think my mother sends my Uncle annual pictures of me. Come to think of it, she probably only sends them our Christmas card, which always pictures me and the family dog. But we stopped those my sophomore year of high school. So maybe Julian's only frame of reference for me is a white, brunette girl whose face has yet to smooth out the pubescent, youthful features. Dog lover.
By blood, we are family. But I can barely call him that. I don't say that in mean way, I just have no real concept who Julian could be. Just because we share grandparents, we are related and we are family.
If you recite all the letters of your DNA, one letter per second, it would take you a century. If any two people recite their DNA together, the first 17 minutes of recitation would be exactly the same DNA letters. Then they would start to diverge. Maybe Julian and I are only supposed to have those 17 minutes in common. Maybe its okay to be so distant, even if you have these supposed bonds and ties.
Maybe everyone is suppose to have a Julian.
No comments:
Post a Comment