He's the Only Brother You'll Ever Have

That's what Mom would say to me all of the time.

"Be good to your brother. He's the only brother you'll ever have."

She was right.

I do only have one brother. He's six years younger and the best guy anyone could meet. He's intelligent, a talented artist, great coach and mentor, HILARIOUS, and can sure play some mean ball. And, damn do I miss him. We live a few states apart and I haven't seen him in a while, but not a day goes by when I don't think about him.

The other day, while I was sitting on the train on my ride into work, I was thinking back to one summer day at Grama's house on the beach. She lived in the Puget Sound area, right on the bay, and one summer when I was 15 and my brother was 9, we spent 3 weeks there. We had such a great time! We played hide and seek on the beautifully lush property, picked green beans from the garden, swam in the bay (man, it was COLD), watched the tide roll in and out, roasted marshmallows on the fire pit, searched for silver dollars, chased little tiny crabs around the beach, and had the best summer two kids from a small dusty town in South Texas could ask for.

And on one of those days that summer--I was not good to my little brother.

It was a pivotal day in our relationship. One that we joke about now, but one that brought us closer together despite everything that happened that day.

It started out as a quiet and typical day at Grama's house. She was in the kitchen preparing some sort of meal out of a box or can and serving it on her finest china and cut glass she found at the local dusty antique shop. Her husband was sitting in his green easy chair sleeping to his prized satellite TV. It was a quiet mid-afternoon of old people's routines and little kids' longing for...something, anything.

I was playing my Grama's groovy sounding organ in other room. I used to play that thing for hours on end...I was never really good at it, but boy was I determined to pound out a few tunes. It was also relaxing for me. I was a pretty stressed out kid and music soothed me like nothing else could. I would play song after song in Grama's massively huge "Fake" book, losing myself in thought and in almost another world, another time.

It was wonderful.

As I was lost somewhere between 'All My Loving' and 'Greensleeves' my little brother tapped ever so lightly on my shoulder, careful not to startle me out of my almost trance. I think he asked me something, but I don't remember now. I shrugged his little hand off my shoulder and probably barked something like, "Leave me alooooooone."

Poor kid. He was probably bored out of his gourd. Yearning to be outside in the sea air, ready to dig in the sand and play...with his sister. But his sister was a teenager, and she was obviously not in the mood to play.

I think he must've asked me a few more times to please, puuuuurty please play with him. But I ignored him, and the next thing I remember was this horrible sound of dissonant chords breaking all of my concentration. The sound pierced my ears as though fingernails were scratching slowly and purposely down an old chalkboard.

It was my brother. He decided that he would get my attention by pounding on the lower keys to get me to stop playing on that damn silly organ, and play with him instead. He was lonely. Afterall, there were no other children for...who knows how many miles. I was his only hope in having a fun afternoon of childhood play.

So, his desperate times called for desperate measures.... And he payed dearly.

I remember feeling an instant rage of anger. Anger like I had never felt before. Anger that I had no idea I could even feel. Anger at this little boy for daring to pull me away from something I loved so dear. Pure raging anger.

I was pissed.

Now...before I tell you what happened next, I must confess something. I've only told this story a few times because I still feel horrible, all of these years later, about how poorly I treated my little brother on that day. But those few times I've told the story I've always offered the disclaimer that I reacted the way I did because my boyfriend told me to. See, I had an older boyfriend during that time. In fact, he was my boyfriend for many years and he witnessed many occasions of my little brother pestering me. My boyfriend also had much experience with his own sisters and younger cousins pestering. I swear that I remember my boyfriend telling me that the next time my brother pesters me I should...I should... Well. I just remember that he told me to do it. But when I think back now, I wonder. I wonder if I offered that disclaimer because that's really what happened--my boyfriend told me to do it...or if I merely created that excuse in my mind...Having such a disclaimer was the only way I could possibly excuse what I did.

I punched my little 9 year old brother square in the face.

Fist and all.

I'm devastated even writing about it now.

I remember watching his face in horror after my hard fist left his soft full cheeks. His face grew bright red and the birthmark he had between his eyes almost glowed, flushed with the rage that was burning inside of him. I was worried that he'd be hurt or would start crying...but instead he grew angry...

And promptly began pounding on me with his fists.



It seemed like he had been punching my back forever and I couldn't manage to get away! But we both distinctly remember one thing...as we were fighting we both saw Grama walk from the kitchen into the living room. When we caught a glimpse of her we immediately froze in action--like the Tom & Jerry cartoons- while she walked by without giving us much notice. Then, once she was out of sight, we were back at it--back to the violence. Maybe that happened...or maybe my brother and I created that moment in our minds as our way of saving ourselves from the pain with humor--like we usually did as kids.

I somehow managed to get away and ran upstairs to my room, slammed the door, locked it, and slid down the door to my bottom drowning in my tears. I sobbed and sobbed for what seemed like hours. I sobbed in pain, but mostly I sobbed in shame. It felt absolutely terrible that I had treated my little brother, the only brother I'll ever have, so badly.

It's something I'll never forget.

After a while, I finally had the courage to come out of my room. No, I was not afraid of my brother hitting me again, nor was I even afraid of being in BIG trouble...I was so ashamed that I was afraid to see his sweet face...fearful that my heart would break instantly in his glare.

I don't remember the exact details of all that happened next, but I do remember that my brother had gone to the beach, collected some sea shells in a little jar with sand and a tiny little flower.

He made me a present.

I don't remember our conversation or what words were said between us, but I know we made up. We also didn't tell anyone what happened that afternoon. In fact, I don't think we even talked about that day until my first semester in college. I was missing him one night and wrote about this day for my English composition class. I got an 'A' and I sent him my paper. I missed him so much then...just like I do now.

And, like after I wrote the story in college, our mom will probably lecture me for being a rotten sister after reading this post, but oh well. It was an important day in my brother's and my relationship. It brought us closer. And it's important to me that I tell this story again...because I need to tell my little brother, "I'm sorry."

Of course we fought many times after this, we're only human. And we're siblings, so it's only normal and expected that we fight. But we NEVER went to blows like we did on that day.

I miss my little brother.

And I love him dearly.

Afterall....he's the only brother I'll ever have.