Every time I come home, he is there. Waiting, for something that he and only he knows.
He lies there, cross legged, on his sides, in front of the television. His fingers would be dwindling strips of newspaper, leaving a mess everywhere. I'd lean down and rustle his curly hair. He would look up, at me, through me, straight in the eye. Squints, almost as if he recognises me, then looks away.
I'll never know if he did recognise me.
I'll never know what my brother really thinks of me.
Fazly Jermadi is an autistic. He was diagnosed with autism when he was six months old. There are several definitions for autism, but I've always defined it as something that affects how you interact with others.
I write about him because he made me realise how difficult life can be for someone who is disabled or living with a disabled. He made me realise how difficult life can be.
I look at him and wonder how difficult it is to be him.
He reminds me that I have been given the chance to live, to lead a 'normal' life. It is a chance he will never have.
And because of that, I will never forget how lucky I am.
How lucky we all are.
And my brother goes on.