I Remember My Brother

I remember my brother was nice to me when I was little. When he got a bicycle and I was too young to get one, he would ride me double before he rode off on his own, and then again when he came home from riding around the neighborhood. When Mom let him go downtown, but said he had to take me with him, he wasn't mad. He even bought me a ring at Woolworth's. When some neighborhood girls were picking on me, and Mom said I had to fight back or get a whipping, he took on the biggest girl even though she was bigger than him! And he scared away the others, and even yelled at our mom (no one ever yelled at Mom).

I remember my brother was smart. Before I started school, he said 'you're not going to embarrass me by going to school ignorant. You're going to learn to read and write and count before you go. And he taught me. I don't know how much time he spent doing it, but I do remember being eager, almost hungry, to learn. I don't think any other teacher in the world could have done better. My desire for knowledge grew out of my desire to make my brother happy, and I will always be thankful to him for it. Years later, when being smart was equivalent to being unpopular, I never considered slacking to fit in. Thank you, brother.

I remember my brother could be mean. He would boss me around, hit me sometimes (never very hard), yell at me, change the radio station if a song came on that I liked, tell me scary stories and hide my toys. When I was four years old he convinced me that every day was my birthday and Mom didn't love me because she didn't buy me a birthday present. I learned quickly how to take orders, how to fight back when I'd had enough, how to not be intimidated by yelling, how to pick my battles, how not to indulge fear unnecessarily, how to take better care of my things, and that I shouldn't believe everything I hear. Thanks again, bro.

I remember my brother broke my heart. He told me never to contact him again, and then he stopped speaking to me. I had decided to move away, and he didn't want me to go. I could understand his wanting me to stay. He couldn't understand why I had to go. That was 25 years ago. I just found out he's dying. If he were conscious, I would try to go and talk to him one more time, but he isn't. He's gone, and he's to be taken off life support this week. I can't go because he isn't there. I don't know who that man is or what his life has been the last 25 years. I can only pray that he's at peace, and not in pain anymore. And pray that he knows, somehow, that I will always remember my brother.