I love my brother.
His poop used to be green (I’m 10 years older, so it’s not weird that I know that).
He once told his preschool teachers that my mother made him eat ants for dinner. That wasn’t true. Her meatloaf was kind of gross sometimes, but that’s not as bad as being forced to eat ants. Especially since we always had dogs that would discreetly eat the food off our plates when Mom wasn’t looking. Travis was out of line.
He saved my life. He wasn’t there, materially speaking, but he saved my life all the same.
He’s the only man - besides myself and my father - I can comfortably call handsome. And he’s easily the handsomest of the three of us.
He calls me at least once a month, just to “see how my brother’s doing,” he says. He’s 18. I’m 28. He’s checking on me? Well, I can’t say I blame him. I do require lots of checking in on - but that’s what the wife is for.
He called me tonight. And it reminded me that I’m living for something more than yesterday, today, or tomorrow. So yeah, I love my brother. I guess you could have just read the first line and gotten all I had to write about from that alone. Sucks to be you.
