Baby Brother

Baby brother, when did you grow up? We're not that far apart, only two years, but I swear you're still little. Can you speak, can you walk? Yes! And when? How? Where was I when this happened? I was consumed with not consuming. With breaking, hiding, scarring, screaming. I'm so sorry, baby brother. Where was I when you needed me?

I was gone.

I shouldn't have been gone from you when you needed me. I shouldn't have made you need me by being gone. I'm trying to make up for it. I know I can't make up for months and years in post-its and afternoon walks, but I'm trying. I love you. You've got me tethered down to the earth. I can't spin too far away because you're holding my hand, and I'd take your blue eyes over a blue sky any day.

I promise to stay here.
Just for you.

I thought you were Mom last night, so I pretended to be asleep. I peeked out from under the pillow to see who's sillhouette was in my doorway. It wasn't the stout frame of our mother. It wasn't the tall frame of our father. It was you. It was someone who is getting taller every day, someone thin and muscular with too much hair. "I'm a bad sister! I should have put him to bed before going to bed myself! What if he's scared?"

But you weren't. You were only concerned for me. "Did you have your snack?"

"No."

"Are you going to?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I had pie with dinner."

"You know that doesn't count."

"Okay."

You waited for me to come out into the hall, we walked down the stairs together in the quiet house, whispering so as not to wake our parents. They were asleep in different chairs, like socks tossed of by an exuberant toddler. I opened the fridge and found a pink snack. I didn't want to eat it. It was food, it was disgusting. I was disgusting.

But I love you.
So I ate.

And then I put you to bed and crawled into bed myself. Baby brother, you grew up.