We made up during the war when you returnt to Sanaa because you were injured. Silly things, futilities had divided us but I was so proud of you: going to the front, too young, just for your country.
Finding each other, again, has been one of the few sensible things I have ever done in my life.
I told you I loved you and still cared for you the same way. And you taught me to open my mouth during airstrikes and that no, fear was not admitted. Fear for what?
You are in ICU now, injured again. They brought you back from the front last night.
There are so many things I would like to tell you because you are too young to succumb to this war.
Just know I love you and miss you, always.
Keep fighting, if you can hear me, keep fighting. For yourself now.
My Little Brother, Hamoudi.
(I remember these words of Leo Buscaglia now:
‘There was a girl who gave me a poem, and she gave me permission to share it with you, and I want to do that because it explains about putting off and putting off and putting off – especially putting off caring about people we really love. She wants to remain anonymous, but she calls the poem
“THINGS YOU DIDN’T DO” and she says this”:
Remember the day I borrowed your brand new car and I dented it?
I thought you’d kill me, but you didn’t.
And remember the time I dragged you to the beach, and you said it would rain, and it did?
I thought you’d say, “I told you so.” But you didn’t.
Do you remember the time I flirted with all the guys to make you jealous, and you were?
I thought you’d leave me, but you didn’t.
Do you remember the time I spilled strawberry pie all over your car rug?
I thought you’d hit me, but you didn’t.
And remember the time I forgot to tell you the dance was formal and you showed up in jeans?
I thought you’d drop me, but you didn’t.
Yes, there were lots of things you didn’t do,
But you put up with me, and you loved me, and you protected me.
There were lots of things I wanted to make up to you when you returned from Vietnam.
But you didn’t.”