LOVE IS LOVE
The Terrible Winged Metaphor of Our Love
Sustaining a sibling connection despite differences, distance, and change
When my sibling and I were young, our mom’s friend Bryan ate a moth and pretended to die.
Bryan was one of those crazy uncle figures in our lives, professional business owner by day, wacky joker in his off-hours. The moth was about the size of a thumbnail and, yes, he really did eat it (ick). After the little bug went down, his dramatic death scene in our entry should’ve made him eligible for a Tony Award. He stuck with his performance too, laying limply on the floor for a while until my sibling began to panic and yelled for our mom to call 9–1–1.
After Bryan’s “miraculous” recovery, I laughed the whole thing off and called him a weirdo. Jo has been lepidopterophobic (afraid of butterflies and moths) ever since.
Jo and I experience the world in dramatically different ways. We share genes and jeans, family members and core values, plus a deep and abiding love of tortilla chips. Beyond that, you’d hardly know we share the same mom.
Our bodies may look similar (although Jo’s exterior has more art on it than mine), but our relationships with them are night and day. Mine is a lovely little shell for my imagination and reliably gets me where I want to go. Jo’s plagues them with stomach pain and has never quite fit the expansive soul inside.
Our brains are wired differently, too. I can devour a fantasy novel every day for a week, but podcasts — Jo’s bread and butter — can’t quite hold my interest. If you want to know the name of any given bone, muscle, or organ in the human body, Jo’s your person. Just don’t ask them about semicolons; those puppies are my purview.
Jo is, in many ways, a social butterfly.
They have an iridescent personality, eye-catching and vibrant. And just like butterflies have ultraviolet markings on their wings, Jo is even more beautiful than the naked eye can see. They flit between bright and beautiful relationships, helping the people around them bloom and grow, sharing wisdom and vitality.
Yet Jo’s wings are delicate. They struggle in the harsh winds of loss and injustice but can achieve extraordinary feats and overcome the cruel elements of this world.
By contrast, I’m more of a social moth. I’m good at blending into a conversation, and I gravitate toward brilliance and warmth. I’m comfortable with my own, plain wings.
Yet despite our differences, Jo and I love and respect each other.
Jo knows I’m never going to watch a horror movie with them, and I’m fully aware that if I put on the masterpiece that is “How to Train Your Dragon” (again), Jo will absolutely sleep through it. But we can split the difference at “Pirates of the Caribbean” and swoon over Kiera Knightly together.
We can carry signs to Women’s Marches and Black Lives Matter protests together. We can cook pancakes and argue over who gets to put the bubble-boy ornament on the Christmas tree this year. We can go to family funerals together.
Our differences are significant, but so is our love.
Some butterflies migrate over 2,000 miles. I did that when I was fourteen. I left behind our childhood home, my recently divorced mom, my migraine-ridden dad, and my change-resistant sibling. I brought with me the truth of their unconditional love and unwavering support.
I also brought The Mom Sweater.
Growing up, our mom wore a black sweater most mornings as she scrambled eggs before school or sipped herbal tea out of a hand-made ceramic mug on weekends. One day, Jo and I caught sight of it in a bag of other clothes to be donated.
But even if mom herself was ready to part with it, The Mom Sweater was not something Jo or I could relinquish. Too many warm hugs and soft cuddles in that fuzzy little sweater. Too many memories of joy and comfort.
We decided to share it. I took it first, down the coast to my high school, and snuggled into it whenever I felt homesick. Jo brought it on their first trip away from home a couple of years later. Then it spent a while in my university dorm room, and it kept Jo warm while they studied for their massage therapy licensing exam. It moved to China with me while I served in the Peace Corps, then followed Jo to Boston for another extraordinary adventure.
At some point, we started expecting that any given airport reunion would feature a hug in which one or the other is wearing that sweater.
If Jo and I are metaphorical lepidoptera then that sweater has been our chrysalis, enveloping us in warmth when we are most vulnerable, cocooning us in our moments of greatest growth and change, present for our metamorphosis.
Family lore says I named my sibling when they were born. Mom and Dad wanted a name that didn’t crop up on either side of the family tree and with both grandmothers being avid genealogists, that was a tough one. Personally, I have no recollection of the decision or how I came to it, being all of three-and-a-half years old at the time.
However, I do remember when, fifteen years later, they asked if I’d be okay if they changed it.
To be clear, they weren’t asking for my permission — Jo is confident, empowered, and has an independent streak you could land a 787 on. They’re also deeply compassionate and considerate of other people’s feelings. If I hadn’t been okay with them leaving behind the name my three-year-old-self had offered, Jo would’ve wanted to help me process through my own feelings.
But I was okay. My sibling has the right to change and keep changing. We can’t stay caterpillars forever.
This change doesn’t always make sense. When I watch caterpillars in the garden, it seems to me they spend a lot of their time squidging around, trying to figure out where the heck they are and what they’re supposed to be doing. That’s okay.
We all have days like that. I’m always up for a good old-fashioned over-the-phone existential crisis with my sib.
Sometimes caterpillars plant their legs on the leaf they know is safe and stretch into the open air, fumbling around in search of an even better leaf. Sometimes they find one, but not always. That’s okay too.
Reaching for our goals is risky and takes us to unexpected places. The best I can do for my sibling is cheer them on in their journey and offer my own thoughts when they ask.
Some changes are more dramatic than others. Fuzzy caterpillars usually turn into fuzzy moths, but butterflies can spring from caterpillars that are sleek and green, black and spiky-looking, polka-dotted or striped. Most of us can’t glance at a caterpillar and know what it will become later in its life. It’s the same for siblings.
The important thing is that I will keep loving Jo under any name, in any body, whether they’re my roommate or 6,000 miles away.
We are not perfect.
Jo, I forgive you for saying I laugh like a seagull (which is true) and instituting the “No Christmas Carols Between New Year’s and Thanksgiving” Rule (which is tragic).
I apologize for not being there at times you needed me.
I celebrate your uniqueness and acknowledge your right to choose your own life and change at will.
I love you, my sibling.
Thank you for reading! For other stirring reads about family, Catherine Oceano’s story about her father is beautiful honoring a kind and loving man.
