I have one sibling. A brother seven years younger. Ironically, his name starts with a B. I can’t remember when he was little. For that matter, I can’t really remember when I was little. How much are we supposed to remember about our childhood? I don’t know. I wonder if there’s something unhealthy about not remembering.
Since the ordeal with our mom, we’re getting to know each other. It’s a little weird. I look at him and I see a grown man. It’s not like he hasn’t been grown for years—he’s in his 50s. I realize I’ve never thought of him that way. When I think of my brother, I remember the kid that constantly tried to make me throw up. I have a very weak stomach and he enjoyed grossing me out. I remember how he always wanted to touch my neck—knowing full well I hated for anyone to do that; still do. I have a lot of quirky hang-ups. I wonder if he remembers them.
A few weeks ago, I sat across the kitchen table watching my brother eat little cuties, those small clemetines that are a variety of mandarin orange, and I noticed how large his hands are, how thick his fingers. I realized he’s got our grandfather’s hands. For some reason, that brought a lump to my throat.Have you ever looked at your brother or sister, or mom or dad, and noticed something you’d never noticed before? How did it affect you?




