Brother
When I was 6, his hands grasped my small ones that lay on the handles of my tiny pink bike as he pushed me through the freshly mowed grass in our Austin house. We practiced and practiced until I was comfortable with falling and then took on the asphalt. There was always fear, and I was sure to cry should that happen, but I knew he would be there to pick me back up, dust me off, hold me while I wept and then put me back on that bike.
When I was 12, he was sharing video games with me, and extending handfuls of patience, despite the fact that I could never really hold my own. He was always there to start the level over, lend me a few items that he had but I needed and let me fumble through again and again. Though I didn’t fully understand at the time, he was in the midst of a tumultuous season of life, so we sucked every bit of joy that we could out of our favorite side scrollers and sci-fi shows, and when that wasn’t enough, we sometimes turned to the Frosted Flakes and Fruity Pebbles we had begged for from our parents. (We had more power as a collective than as individuals.)
When I was 15, we were back in the same city, and he was introducing me to new parts of his life. He was taking me to shows and encouraging me to experiment with my style as we shared clothes and crafted into existence the things that made us feel cool and excited. We were amateur sewers and pinned on patches that we now regret, but we were proud of each creation and now imagine them in some teen’s haul from Goodwill, completely unaware of what those crooked patches and crafted clothes meant to us.
When I was 18, he was listening to me cry on the phone as I waded through a confusing and lonely space and time. The space: my college dorm room (complete with three beds, three desks, three girls and not enough space). The time: my freshman year of college. As we remarked upon the parallel between my life at 18 and his, he simply sat in it with me and helped me forget when I was home for days at a time. He was there, and he made sure that I knew that I had to fight this out, just as he had all those years ago.
When I was 20, he was going to bat for my partner, instilling in him the same encouragement and support that he himself needed in those years. He was loving on me indirectly this time by loving on someone that I cherish, and he was prioritizing a relationship that was so tightly interwoven with who I was becoming. He was affirming my choice and simultaneously pouring into something that was equal parts scary and exciting for me.
Now, at 21, he’s still doing all of those things: guiding me through difficult moments, his hands pressed gently over mine only to let go when the time is right and is always just around the corner to hold me when I come up scraped and bruised. He’s still sharing beautiful and fun things, gifting me art and music and games that he knows will speak to the deepest parts of who I am or simply make me laugh. He’s still listening even when I don’t have the words to adequately explain it all, and in the midst of the most uncertain times, he has gone to great lengths to make me feel just as loved as ever.
I don’t always make it easy, but he is my big brother after all. So Happy Birthday, Brother.
