Crouched beside me, we both stare at the TV screen, controllers in our hands. I make a suggestion about how we approach our current objective in the game. He turns to me, smiling, and says,”While you do what, go down with the ship?” I start laughing, as he does too. It’s an obscure reference, the kind we make often. It brings good memories of previous games we’ve played. That’s what he does. He’s my brother.

I was hours old, and he wore a band that said,”I’m the big brother”. My first word was a failed attempt to pronounce his name. We’ve shared a bedroom our entire lives. He showed me things like insects, multiplication, and puzzles when I was in first grade.

Every game where it’s been possible, we’ve played together. When one finds something fun or new, the other is the first to know. He snuck me M-rated games when I was thirteen. Showed me rock and metal music in middle school. He’ll pay our way into movies just to hear me commentate about the film. That’s what he does. He’s my brother.

In the media, men such as Bob Ross and Mister Rogers are models of serenity and friendliness. He’s similar. His unassuming, quiet demeanor belies a warm soul. He is encouraging and kind. Even at my darkest, he operates as a soft light to help. He shows this warmth to all, from a kitten to a former Neo-Nazi.That’s his personality.

On more than one Christmas he would purchase everyone’s gifts, even when he knew others could afford to get them. He gives up free time to take care of the plants at his church and volunteers for hours at local events. I once found an odd letter on his desk.

When asked, he replied that he’s been financially supporting a charity for victimized women, but didn’t want to make a big deal of it. He’s all for the little and quiet ways with which to help people. That’s what he does. He’s my brother.

More than just a good person, he’s a gifted one. Graduated university with high honors. I envy him. His painting, writing, and singing skills are something to see. He inspires me to better myself, to be more like him. Rather than simply being content in his skills, he praises and helps others. If I speak highly of his work, he’ll do the same with me. Maybe I’ll never be at his level of talent, but he thinks I am. That’s what he does. He’s my brother.

He is my brother, but he’s many things to many people. To our sister, he’s the favorite uncle for our nephew. He’s the one who showed her video games and horror literature. He’s one of the biggest supporters of her art. He keeps one of her works hung near his bed and has never taken it down.

To his fiance, he’s the man she deserves, someone kind, funny, and smart. She has someone loyal, loving, and always willing to help. To his former teachers and professors, he’s the ideal student. He asks questions, takes knowledge, and respects any who chose to teach as a career; after all, it is his future occupation. That’s what he does. He’s my brother.

To write about him is to express the conceit that he can be encapsulated in a few pages. To wit, he would require a novel. A book full of the warmth, kindness, and intelligence he embodies. A book I would gladly write to show him to others. Many are cynical, and express views that no one’s good, that there aren’t moral people.

They’re wrong. I’ve met the person who proves that idea false. I watch movies with him. He cares for plants the way some would care for people. He makes every day brighter. That’s what he does. He’s my brother.