Every summer’s Sunday for nine years had always been the same. My brother James and I would walk the uphill trail near our childhood home to reach a view over the reservoir. He would pace himself, his long pale legs taking one step for every two of my strides as our old white-faced labrador pressed to his knees. I would gallop vibrantly, my blissful spirit pushing me towards the sunlight reaching through the leaves until I would collapse into dead weight slung over his shoulder the whole way down.
Our parents did not intend to have a third child. James was eleven years old when I was born, and our sister was freshly nine. I imagine it was as if I had kicked down the door and barged into a complete family like a vexatious neighbor ringing the doorbell at dinnertime, but James welcomed me into his life like I was sunlight on his skin. He was the one to choose my name, and his were the first arms to rock me to sleep. It was those arms that sculpted me into who I am. James taught me how to hold a pencil, how to strum a guitar, and how to mix paints to mimic the colors we saw on our hikes. He introduced me to nature and read me excerpts from his biology textbooks as curiosity began to form its grip around my skull. It was the strength he bore that enabled him to carry a sleeping child for miles that showed me what the warm blooms of Massachusetts looked like from hundreds of feet above every Sunday. It was the kindness of his heart, carrying what he had never volunteered to hold, that introduced me to the world I now know.
I have not spoken to James in nearly four years. Adulthood has given him new things to carry. He spent time searching for passion within the monotonous world of finance, and for himself between the bustles and chaos of New York City. Rather than a little sister, he now has his own life to carry on his shoulders. The weights of mortgages, paychecks; the balancing act between relationships with work, and stress with joy. As he struggled to lift these new dumbbells from his chest, self-medication slithered into control of his life. Each drink chipped away a fiber of the thread tying him to our family until for the first time, there were only two daughters pictured in the annual holiday card, and it began to go unsaid that there would now be only four chairs at our Thanksgiving table.
I still hike the reservoir trail, now alone. Occasionally, my chest aches when I look down at the path beaten into the fallen foliage and find myself wondering how many layers I would have to sweep away to find James’s footprints. But the gloom rarely lasts, as it is never long before the songs of nature take me captive. Routinely, my brain will scatter to identify the birds behind each call from the trees, and my eyes will begin to photograph the colors that I will rush home on my rickety bike to paint.
  Our silence leaves me with little understanding of what replaced the weight of my body on James’s shoulders. I still find myself stretching to reach for him sometimes. Counselors have told me to treat this drifting like loss, but they are misguided. I may have not spoken to the boy that carried me through childhood in years, but his drifting is not a loss. By carrying me, James has given me more than his absence could ever take away. The comics we drew at breakfast introduced me to my haven of art. Our Sunday walks sparked a lifelong interest in environmental science and taught me how to find refuge in the whispers of trees. Owed to the experiences James gave me, passion now grips me like a boa constrictor. He gave me more than the silence he left behind; beyond the memories, James gave me parts of myself that I can carry with me and never worry about dropping.