My older brother had always been the one to take life by the hands and make it his own.
He always had way too many plans for himself, too much tenacity and brazenness to keep it all bundled up in one.
So when he came into my room one day — failing to knock despite the numerous times I've frustratedly asked him to and as nonchalant as ever — and told me he signed a contract to join the Marines, the first thing that came out of my mouth was, "Did you tell mom and dad?"
He kind of shrugged and proceeded to ask me to help him research the benefits the Marines had, like points on a powerpoint presentation he would use to persuade my parents to let him go.
Ever since he was young, it was always his dream to join a branch of the military. When he graduated high school, his plan was to go straight into the force to serve. However, our parents — traditional Filipinos in almost every sense of the word — wanted him to get a degree first.
So, he did. He jumped around from business to mechanical engineering to criminal justice; I knew that despite how smart he was, education wasn't something he put his heart to. It didn't beat for books and learning the way it did for cars and getting his hands marred with oil and fixing and action.
He was always looking for adventures in the ways it molded into his passions.
But, three years (a year at UConn and two at Manchester Community College) into college, my brother had created plans for himself that didn't necessarily fit the typical Asian ideal of what it meant to be successful.
Despite that, our parents caved. They saw how passionate my brother was for this and they saw how his spirit wasn't one that could be caged within the walls of a classroom. He had brains and enough heart to follow a path that not many traveled on.
My brother was never the one to stick and walk the paved road; he liked making his own.
Our parents caved because he was their son and despite the worry, the fear of the unknown that was trying to cloud their judgment, they trusted him to follow his heart.
I was nothing short of proud. A little apprehensive, anxious and unsure of what that really meant, but not surprised.
I've always been too rash, too reckless and made enough decisions with my head in the clouds. I got myself in way too much trouble with the constant cycle of losing and trying to find myself in college, doing whatever and brushing off the consequences like mere dust on my sleeves. While I was doing a little soul searching in college, my brother already knew where his lay.
No matter how many times I seemed to crumble in on myself, my brother was always there like something akin to the spine in the way it kept the body from falling in on itself.
He was always the constant to pull me out of whatever hole, whatever darkness I found myself venturing into. My brother was always the one to keep my feet on the ground.
My brother left for boot camp around four weeks ago. Four weeks into a 13-week journey that isolated him from the outside world, four weeks into the start of it all.
Four weeks of communicating through letters that took too long in the mail, letters that didn't seem quite enough to fill the emptiness in the house.
Four weeks of my parents watching never-ending Marine training videos on youtube, of military homecoming clips.
Four weeks of worry and anxiety and wondering if he'll come home the same person he was.
Four weeks of missing him.
Four weeks and two days to be exact.
Of course, I'm counting.
