For my brother, on the eve of his deployment

I was crossing the street today and at the moment I stepped onto the curb a man walking with his cane caught his foot on a crack in the sidewalk and fell in front of me.  His cane dropped to the ground, his arms didn’t come up in time to catch himself, and he landed hard, partly on his face.  As I helped him up I saw the blood running from his forehead, catching on his bushy eyebrows and then dripping from his glasses onto his coat.  I asked him how he felt, worried that he had hit his head and he said, “stupid,” pulling a worn, folded handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing his forehead. Another passerby asked if he could call someone to come.  This elderly man, bleeding on a busy street corner, surrounded by well-intentioned yet clueless passersby, embarrassed to have fallen, said, “yes, call my sister.”

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I thought of the conspiratorial bond of brothers and sisters, how sometimes you want them to help you because you don’t want anyone else to know what happened. 

I think about the way you and I have an unspoken agreement about what is funny, what is serious, what is important and what we should and should not tell mom and dad. 

I think about our sameness and our difference and the ageless debate between nurture and nature.  I am glad for our similarities, and I’m glad for the departures.  But more than the genes and experiences that we share, I hope you are proud of me.  I am proud of you.