It’s been awhile since we talked, hasn’t it? I mean, really talked. A few months, maybe even years. You live in the room next to mine, but we don’t frolic in the fields in search of Pokemon anymore, nor do we watch Duran Duran music videos in the basement, making fun of the concepts but loving the music. Remember that Fedora we bought, the one that was supposed to look identical to the one worn by Andy Taylor? I do.
We’ve got drastically different opinions now, and that’s okay. I know I don’t make it seem that way, what with our fighting at the dinner table, but you’ve grown into your own man, now, and I can respect the fact that you can think for yourself. I’ve got to admit, though, it’s a little scary when you drive out of the driveway with your friends, playing .38 Special just a bit too loud. I can still recall sitting under the kitchen table, coloring you with orange marker, you know? It’s weird to think that we’ve progressed so far when I can still picture that afternoon so easily.
In fact, it’s an oddity to think of us, as a unit, as anything far removed from our days of play fighting in our Power Ranger pajamas, doing cartwheels around the beds and dropkicks from the mattresses—didn’t that get us in trouble, at some point? A few months ago, we gathered in the basement to watch the Power Ranger film for the sake of nostalgia—you, me, mom, and dad—and while it was certainly hilarious, it felt hollow. It wasn’t the case of two parents and their children watching a favorite film; it was an instance wherein four independent adults collectively sat for an hour and thirty minutes in together, yet still separate contemplation, with moments of hysterics.
Last night was Poca’s homecoming, and you were chosen to be part of the homecoming court. Of course you were, right? You’re incredibly talented: all-around athlete, honor student, and one of the nicest people to ever grace this earth (despite the fact that you leave your dirty shoes on my treadmill every night). You looked fantastic in your suit—the suspenders, specifically, were my favorite. Most importantly, though, you appeared to have left that little boy with whom I’d grown up behind, and that was simultaneously wondrous and terrifying.
Now, you’re taller than me (about which I am slightly bitter), have the dry, witty sense of humor that belongs in a Monty Python production, and the gap in your front teeth is gone (we can both thank orthodontics for that one, though). I understand that you’re still my little brother, but in a way, you’ve also graduated from that category into something that doesn’t quite have a name yet—in any case, I can’t quantify it. And in June, you’ll wear one of those large, heat-retaining robes for graduation, and you’ll pray for everyone to just get on with their speeches because, trust me, it will be hot as hell in that robe.
I wish I could tell you to stop getting older. I wish I could convince you that growing up is just a big ‘ol scam, but really, it isn’t, and I know you can’t wait to be out on your own. You’re a people person, and you’ll make friends immediately when you go to college. And after you graduate, you’ll move up north and live in log cabin with your pug, just like you’ve always wanted.
I, as your big sister, have some demands, though:
You have to call and/or text me once a week. This is non-negotiable. We’ve seen brother-sister fallouts, and I don’t want that to happen to us.
You’ve got to come home for the holidays. I plan on moving away, too, so we’ve got to be sure we’re here for our parents during Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc.
And finally, never stop being you. I know this sounds cliché, and you’re probably rolling your eyes, but you’ve done a brilliant job of this, thus far, and I don’t want any of that to ever change.
