...when we were brothers

About six months ago my younger brother called me out of the blue and asked me to be the Best Man in his wedding. Seems normal enough. And it would've been normal except that I hadn't seen this brother in about 20 years.

20 years.

Hmmm...

Mark is not actually my brother by blood. He is my step brother and came into my family when I was three and he was two. Our childhood was tumultuous, to say the least. We've reminisced over it the last six months, and it's good to know that I'm not crazy... that it really was what I thought. It's great to have another person validate what you remember and bring those dark memories into a brighter light, where they cast fewer shadows.

We've laughed a lot. Remembering when. We talked about the scar on his arm from sliding in our new socks in the basement; him running into a stack of curtains rods and slicing his forearm. We also made peace over the scar on my thumb that is purely his fault. We were sitting on a bench in the backyard while I whittled on a stick. He kept saying, "I just really feel like something bad is going to happen. Like something really bad!" I told him to stop saying that, and as I did, sliced my thumb and wound up in the emergency room getting stitches. I still can't bend my thumb all the way back.

Tonight on the phone I told him I was really glad we'd made this connection, and he agreed. But still, it was strange. We were... like brothers. Partly because we lived with each other until he left our home and went to live with his real mom when he was about 13. We'd spent 11 years of our lives together. How could we not be brothers? We'd seen all the same stuff go on. We'd lived it together... both of us.

I knew him then. I'd watch him read books at ten years old, knowing that none of the rest of us read like him... knowing that even though he lived with us, he was different than us. I knew he was really good in Math when none of the rest of us were. I knew he felt lonely sometimes... that even though he was now a part of a family with 4 children, that he was still, in many ways, an only child.

When he left, we took completely different paths. I saw him once when he was 18 and I was 19. He had really long hair (burn out hair) and I was peg-ankle-panted with a Gap sweater. We were entirely different and I felt less like I knew him then, than I ever had. But I guess I don't feel like that anymore. I feel like I know him. I feel like 20 years has solidified something born in our childhoods that cannot be unborn.

When we were brothers we got along. We were pretty respectful to each other (except when he insisted that "dreamt" [and not just "dreamed"] was past tense for the word "dream." He was right.

When we were brothers... I thought we'd always be brothers. But we weren't. At the time I'd only known life with him in it. We had walked to school with each other everyday. I'd wait on him and we'd walk home... together. And when we got home, I'd watch him pull his folded brown lunch sack out of his back pocket and set it on the kitchen table, as requested. And he knew I always forgot mine.

He also knew I loved paint-by-numbers and singing in our three-brother's-trio. And I did love it. He hated it.

So on the eve of the eve of his wedding, I've gotta say, I'm proud to be reconnected. So glad that he's back... or that I'm back... or that we're back. I didn't see it coming a year ago. I didn't expect that I'd be sitting on my front porch laughing about old times... about being eight and nine years old and sorting dental billing receipts for our parent's Dental Laboratory. I didn't expect we'd have so many of the same memories.

I guess I never really expected that we'd find each other again. Or that we'd open up so quickly. Or that we'd see the past...together, and remember it as it really was. And some of it was good. Actually some of it was really good... when we were brothers.