My brother and I are two years apart in age, which means very little in our mid-to-late thirties. Back in junior high and high school, however, it was a different story. We were growing up much the same way most brothers do, with times of true comraderie and other times of get-the-hell-away-from-me. There are things I sometimes look back upon and regret: there are things I remember saying that I'm sure he doesn't even remember, yet they occasionally haunt me. There are other times that I truly cherish, and look back upon fondly. This is one:
Not long after our father passed away--this must have been when I was sixteen or seventeen and he was fifteen or so--our mother took a little trip with some friends to Las Vegas. By this time my brother and I had ceased hostilities--Mom clearly needed none of that--but there were still some tense moments brought on by growing pains. I had become accustomed to having a younger brother, and we were at the point where I was known in some circles as HIS older brother. There was no fighting over this, for it was what it was. But we had become closer through the experience of our father's death, and it could be measured, oddly enough, with a pair of dice.
Mom brought home little souvenirs for us from every little trip, and upon her return we were each presented with a pair of dice with our names on them. Each of us held two dice; without saying a word, with only a short glance, we agreed to swap one of each. He had two dice, each with one of our names on them, and I had the same. What meant so much to me is that we made this exchange without ever talking about it, before OR after. In fact, I think this is the first time I've made mention of it since it happened (more than twenty years ago). It meant a great deal to me that he and I could share that kind of moment.
And it still does. Happy Birthday, Bro.
