"Temari…Kankuro…I'm sorry."
January 19th. The day I missed my chance to say goodbye to my mother and the day I said, "Hello, baby brother! Welcome to the world! I know things might seem scary now, but don't worry. Your older sister and brother will take care of you forever!" Or at least, that's what I wanted to say. I wonder how things would've turned out if I had said that.
Gaara, who was undeniably too small and much too early, was hidden from my curious stare. All I wanted to do was touch his beautiful, tiny face and ask a hundred times why his hair was red. Thinking back on it now, I probably would've asked our father if a fairy had visited Mother when Gaara was still in her tummy and sprinkled red dust on her. His answer would've been, "Yes, Temari. Now please, I have work to do. Why don't you go play with Kankuro?"
Who would've known that my four-year-old imagination would've held true, but in a way much less innocent than a fairy?
One of my biggest regrets is that I didn't sneak glimpses at him during his toddler years. He was always kept away at the hand of Yashamaru. Our father raised Kankuro and I while mostly forgetting his youngest. I honestly think that was his goal; to pretend that Gaara was never even conceived. However, the late-night cries and temper tantrums couldn't mask the truth that he existed.
The only time I ever came into contact with Gaara was when he was taken from his room by our father, who seemed to always have a hard time touching the infant he produced. I tried to remember if he had been like this with Kankuro and I, but images of our mother's face flashed through my mind. She was the one who took care of us, who pulled my hair into the ponytails I still can't seem to rid myself of and who kissed Kankuro's knees when he tripped and scraped his skin.
Our father didn't know how to be a father. Sure, he knew which food to place in front of the screaming, crying, kicking boy. He knew how to change diapers. But did he know which songs to sing to make Gaara stop crying, or how to bounce him on his leg the way Yashamaru did to lull him into a state of relaxation? Absolutely not.
Birthdays came and went, but Gaara's always stuck in my mind. Unsure of his age, I counted on my fingers. "If I'm eight," I told Kankuro, who had just finished doodling his poorly proportioned birthday cake on a piece of paper, "and you're six, that makes Gaara four." And so, my younger brother drew a giant, sloppy, backwards "4."
We had slipped the birthday card underneath Gaara's bedroom door, but before we could take the chance to hide, it swung open to reveal our livid father. I could remember the look of devastation written plainly on Gaara's face as the door slammed shut behind him.
The words, "Hapy 4th burthday, Gaara! Why don't you com and play with us sumtim? Luv, Kankuro and Temari" were never read. That, I believe, was my very first heartbreak.
As we grew and after Yashamaru's death, our contact with each other became more frequent. Gaara left his room to feed himself; food was no longer bought to him. Although our father never seemed to be home, I still tried to prepare as much food as if I were feeding a normal family who came together for meals. Leftovers were stored away, but I knew Gaara was eating them when said food seemed to disappear.
He ignored Kankuro and me completely. He didn't seem to be interested in our daily lives, how studies at the academy were going, or what our future goals were. But then again, we never asked the same for him. In all honesty, even though I wanted to connect with my youngest brother and have an actual conversation with him, words escaped me at every chance I got.
"Gaara, I'm going laundry. Need anything washed?" I had called as I anxiously rapped on his door with my knuckles. Laundry was something our father did, but we hadn't seen him in two days and it was piling up.
"Fuck off, Temari."
And that was my second heartbreak.
I always had a thought gnawing away at me from the back of my mind that maybe Gaara hated me so much because I looked like our mother. The idea of dying my hair popped up every so often, but I knew it would be a wasted effort. No matter what color my hair was, I would always have her gentle eyes, her narrow nose, and her full lips. Gaara would hate me no matter what I looked like.
My third and definitely not final heartbreak was probably the most important.
I thought I was going to lose my baby brother. I really did.
When Kankuro and I had found him lying on the ground, I thought for sure, "This is it. My brother, dead."
But Gaara had blinked and told us it was over, his voice weak, thin. The Uchiha had crouched near his teammate, reassuring him that the pink-haired one was okay, that Gaara had released her from his sand. He had given up.
I can still feel the aching pain of my body as we retreated through the forest. Kankuro held onto Gaara securely, almost as if he were afraid that if he allowed his muscles to give even a little, our brother would slip away forever.
The fact that Gaara's death was undesirably close wasn't the trigger of my heartbreak. It was his words. He had whispered them so softly near Kankuro's ear that I wasn't entirely sure if I had heard him right. Telling from the puppeteer's frown and hard stare, I knew I had.
"Temari…Kankuro…I'm sorry."
If you were to ask me, "Hey, Temari, what is the one word that you'll never hear Gaara say? I mean, never, ever in the known universe, ever?"
My reply would be, "Sorry."
I guess Gaara said the one thing none of us said, but should have. Sorry. That word goes a long way, especially coming from him. Even when I had fed him, washed his clothes, handed him objects that were just out of his reach, that word never crawled from his mouth.
And when it did, I had to fight with all my remaining strength the urge to pull him in tight and tell him that it was okay, that everything was going to be okay because I wasn't mad. No, I was not mad at him for anything that had happened up to that point in our lives. I was angry with our father for ruining him before he even opened his eyes for the first time. I was angry with our mother who was desperately needed not only by Gaara, but by Kankuro and me. I was angry with Yashamaru, for making Gaara into a monster.
Two years have passed since that day. I'm watching Gaara right now, but I'm pretty sure he hasn't seen me yet. He's nervous, I can tell. The way he's chewing on his bottom lip and performing the "breathe in through your nose, our through your mouth" routine gives it away without a hint of doubt.
I don't blame him for feeling this way. It isn't every day that you're elected as the Kazekage.
"I wish they would've given you a smaller size," I tell him, emerging from the hallway. His eyes meet mine through the mirror and his teeth retract from his lip.
"I'll make it work," he answers, tugging at the white garb that seems like a bed sheet on him. "I suppose they overestimated me."
I wanted to tell him that they didn't overestimate him. His entire life, the whole world underestimated him, seeing him as some worthless catalyst for a great demon. Gaara is anything but worthless.
Since the incident with the Uzumaki kid, Gaara's attitude and outlook on life had flipped a complete 180. Instead of threatening to kill Kankuro, he spent more time with him, offering suggestions of puppet upgrades and new poison types to install. Instead of telling me how hideous I looked, I heard more often, "Temari, you look…um…okay, pretty today?"
It was rocky, but he tried. He tried so hard, it was almost painful to watch. The villagers of Sunagakure still spat in his direction, offered him nothing but cold glares, and shouted insults when he was far from them, but he only ignored it. Witnessing all that, even though I screamed at and scolded everyone who participated, was my fourth heartbreak.
When we were younger, I didn't feel protective of Gaara. I knew he would take care of himself, but when he changed, the bullies seemed to grow when they realized he wouldn't harm them, no matter what they did to him. I, however, am not my youngest brother. I didn't hold my voice back. I didn't stop when I made adults cry. I didn't allow myself to feel any regret. Never again.
I can feel the goose bumps rise on my legs and arms as Gaara watches himself in the mirror. He's taller than me now and I'm not sure how to feel about that. I'm the eldest and yet, both of my brothers have somehow exceeded me in height.
I can see traces of me, of our mother, in Gaara now. We share the same gentle eyes, even though mine are now brimming with tears. When he smiles - a rare occurrence - he has dimples, just like she did. He's thin, incredibly so. And he certainly did not inherit that from our father.
"Okay," he mutters after a forceful huff of breath. "I'm going to be late if I don't go no – Temari, why are you crying? Is everything okay?"
I can't stop the quick laugh that flies from my salty lips. I missed wiping a few tears before they reached my mouth, but I hurry to rid myself of them.
"Yeah," I reply, although my voice cracks. I'm sure that doesn't help my case.
Gaara advances toward me in a way that a small child would move toward a wounded animal. He places a hand on my shoulder and I know he almost expects me to turn from him. Physical contact is still on his "needs to work on list."
"Temari." His voice is stern and for a moment, he seems so much older than fifteen. "What's wrong? Is it the garb? I can ask them to tailor it beforehand. I'm sure it isn't a problem, or I can even try to do it myself."
I clear my throat, my face devoid of all tears. I'm sure my eyes are a little red, though.
When I pull Gaara into me and wrap my arms tight around his shoulders, I can feel him flinch and become as rigid as a rock. I wait a total of three seconds before he relaxes into me and hesitantly snakes an arm around me.
"Everything is okay, Gaara. I promise."