One chip at a time

On sibling sobriety mileage and finding a bridge to cross

Fourth of July 1970, Havertown, Pa.

We stay in touch by text, mostly.

He calls me Sister Kim. I’m his only sister, but alright, okay. Sometimes his messages are a little churchy, but I don’t care. My brother is sober today, right now, in this moment.

Last week, John sent a text: It’s his one-year soberversary. He’ll get his chip. A chip that hopefully will beget more chips.

Our brother Tim (who has his own sober journey) and I are cautiously optimistic. We think maybe possibly fingers crossed.

But it doesn’t really matter what we think. It matters what he thinks. That he’s proud of how far he’s come and understands how much work there is before him.

Last time we were in the same room was eight, maybe nine years ago. He was clean then, a stretch of three good years. Still a smart ass, but sober.

When he went back to using, I went back to judging. I blocked his number. I blocked him from my thoughts. The river got wide.

John’s long and winding tenure as an addict is not my story to tell. But being the sister of an addict is.

We are close in age — two years and two months — but have never been friends. There was a sweet spot when we were both cherubs posing for the camera. It was just the two of us for a few years before Tim came along.

I wish I could tell you something fun and funny about me and John growing up. But I’m tired of thinking about what we didn’t have.

A few weeks ago, John sent a video of himself dancing in the driver’s seat of his van. He was goofy. Childlike. Laughing at himself. A guy I might want to know.

I responded in kind. I’m in the car, in the grocery story parking lot, my bags in the back. It’s Friday afternoon, just in time for WXPN’s “Funky Friday.” Was it Cheryl Lynn’s “Got to Be Real” playing? No matter. I press the red button on my phone and dance in my seat, flailing and grooving and getting funky. Then send it over the transom. He responds immediately.

I’ve always loved a dance party. All those record hops in the seventh grade celebrating friends’ bar and bat mitzvahs. The record player spinning in the living room. Our family’s shared love for Kool & The Gang. Doing the bump.

Maybe that’s the bridge. Maybe we should play some funky music and dance dance dance until our middle-aged feet can’t take it anymore. Maybe possibly fingers crossed.