Wanderlust

Every time I step foot in a new place I wonder if my siblings have been there.

I want to touch my toes down in every state, in every city, every country. Not for the sake of new experiences, or new views, but for the hope of being able to say with confidence, “I have walked where my siblings have,” or to know with certainty that they have walked where I have.

My brother Joshua’s obituary names the places social services scattered us. I fear the only place we will all be together, is when crammed in the lines of the obituaries of our family members.

“Stephanie Perrault of Brockton.”

“Steven Rice of Florida.”

“Austin, Garret and Matthew Degenhardt all of Avon.”

“Jessica Nichols-LaRosa of Randolph.”

“Timothy and Robert Hills, both of Harwich.”

“Anthony Wesley of Bellingham.”

Last year I worked at a college in Franklin, one town over from Bellingham.

Everyday was a constant fight to not find my way into the high school or middle school, to walk every square inch. To sit in every chair. Touch every railing or door handle. To leave traces of myself so that the next time his fingers or feet graze a surface, any surface, he will feel a pull. A tug of love. A sister’s embrace.

The fight only subsided when I realized more time had passed than I had realized, that this brother of mine wandering the earth would not be in middle school or high school. He’d have been a few years into college if that was the path he chose. My net needed to be wider, my footsteps more broad.

I scour the internet semi-regularly for these siblings of mine. I know Anthony’s nose like it is my own, and maybe through our shared DNA it is. I think I’d know that nose anywhere.

I will Facebook to show me on their “People You May Know”, for Instagram to show me as a suggested person to follow. For Anthony to be mindlessly scrolling one day and stop and think, “I know that nose, I know that face, I know that name.”

My digital footprint leaves little to be desired. Playing high school and college basketball at a high enough level to be written about. Now coaching at the collegiate level, there are pictures of me everywhere with bios about where I have been, where I’m going.

So I know that I am easy to find.

Because of that I have vowed to myself to never truly go looking for them, for fear of disturbing their lives. For fear of upending whatever work they’ve done to overcome the horrors of our childhoods. For the thought they if they wanted to find me, they would, because they could. They can.

So I will never knock on a door or place a phone call. I will never say, “Hi, my name is Jess. I am your sister, and I am so glad to finally see you again.”

But if I am found. If they find me. Well, that’s all I could ever ask for.

For now, I will look up at the stars and try to find solace in knowing wherever we all are, no matter how far apart, we are looking at the same stars, the same moon.

I will let my bare feet dig into the soil. I will let the water of the ocean splash my ankles. I will let my hands linger on door handles, and countertops, railings and tables in the hope that the universe casts my energy to them so that they may feel a pull, a tug, a sister’s embrace.