A year and a half.
17 months.
On October 1995, I was born, and then on March 1997, you were born.
It's just a short time when you think about it. When we were growing up, however, it was such a difference. I was a whole year and a half older. I was a grade above you. I was older.
Then middle school came around. You looked older now. You grew out your hair from that mushroom haircut mom always did, to a bit longer and puffy. We were teenagers now. We fought all the time for anything and everything. Dad hated how much we fought, but that was all we did.
Three years later, we were in high school. Once again, we fought over anything and did not get along too well at all. I'm pretty sure you hated me when we were in high school. We were that brother and sister.
Now we're both in college and things are different. They're better. We see each other a few times a year and talk every couple of weeks. We don't fight. As much. We defiantly get along a lot better now, but we still are brother and sister.
You're an adult now. You have a full time job, you go to FIU, you have a serious girlfriend, and you look so grown. I was even able to call you when I was in the hospital and you helped calm me down and asked how I was. You're matured. It's crazy every time I go home and see you. When I show my friends your picture, everyone thinks you're my older brother. They think you're almost 3 or 4 years older than you are.
Yeah, you're my little brother. But you're also my big little brother. I'm proud.