The Joy of Houseguests

There is something beautiful about having your sibling come to stay.

For approximately eleven minutes.

You haven’t seen each other properly in ages. They arrive. There are hugs. Bags get dumped by the door. Drinks are poured. Old stories immediately come out. Everyone laughs. Mrs. Bob is happy. Even the dog seems pleased with the situation.

You think to yourself, This is nice.

And that is your first mistake.

Because somewhere around Day Two, something changes.

You begin to remember that the person visiting your house is not merely a guest.

They are your sibling.

Which means they possess a level of conversational access that no normal houseguest would ever dream of using.

Normal guests have boundaries.

Siblings have historical evidence.

They remember what you looked like at fourteen. They remember every ridiculous thing you ever did. They remember girlfriends, haircuts, questionable evenings, terrible purchases and opinions you held in 1997.

Worse, they remember a version of you from before you became the impressive, mature woodland creature you clearly are today.

And they will happily explain that version to everyone currently sitting at your kitchen table.

Repeatedly.

By Day Three, you start noticing other things.

The chewing.

The volume.

The way they somehow have a forest full of opinions about absolutely everything.

Coffee.

Politics.

Your thermostat.

How you stack the dishwasher.

Where you bought the sausages.

Why you bought those sausages.

Whether these sausages are actually as good as the sausages they get near them.

Suddenly you’re standing at the kitchen counter holding a spatula thinking:

We share parents.

Apparently this means I have certain obligations.

But sweet woodland mercy, could you give your yapper a little winter hibernation?

This is the great contradiction of siblings.

You didn’t choose them.

There was no interview process.

No trial period.

No thirty-day return policy.

One day you simply became aware that this other woodland creature existed, lived in your house and would apparently remain part of your life until one of you fell out of the family tree.

And that’s the deal.

You don’t necessarily have to understand each other.

You certainly don’t have to agree with each other.

You just have to periodically show up.

Because family is partly love, partly history and partly a very old contract nobody remembers signing.

So you host.

You make the bed.

You buy too much food.

You listen to the same story you’ve heard fifty times.

You pour another drink.

You nod politely while they explain something about your own house to you.

And occasionally you wander outside under the pretence of checking something important just to stand quietly beside a tree for seven minutes.

Then eventually their bags appear by the door again.

There are hugs.

“Great seeing you.”

“Absolutely.”

“We should do this more often.”

“Definitely.”

You wave as the car disappears down the road.

You close the door.

Silence.

Glorious, magnificent, pine-scented silence.

You look at Mrs. Bob.

Mrs. Bob looks at you.

And without either of you saying a word, you both know exactly what the other is thinking.

Well.

That obligation has been successfully fulfilled.

Nobody fought.

Nobody left early.

The house is still standing.

By every reasonable measure, an outstanding family visit.

And would you do it again?

Of course.

They’re family.

Give it twenty years.

We’ll probably be ready.

The Book of Bob says: You don’t choose your siblings. You’re simply issued one at some point during childhood and expected to maintain the relationship for life. So open your home, pour them a drink, tolerate the branch-rattling and remember: twenty years really does fly by.