He is four and a half years younger than me.
And we look alike.
Our hair is the same color.
Our eyes, too.
Also? We think alike.
We laugh at the same crazy quirky jokes.
We even speak our own language.
(Truly. It’s called Ishkabibble. And it’s da bomb.)
We stay up late, talking and suppressing laughter, just the way we have since we were little kids.
When he was small, he wore buckskins and World War I outfits. He did an amazing impersonation of Sgt. York.
Now? He wears faux nerd glasses, bow ties on planes flying to Nashville just because he can and totally rocks a bright purple and lime green fanny pack.
(Yes, I’m serious.)
Also, he purposely doesn’t make crazy faces for pictures, when we say we will, just so I’ll look like the weirdo.
He walks in our front door, a flood of sunshine, brightening our lives in an instant.
His nephews climb up, hanging on his long arms and legs, this tall boy, thin as could be.
They wrestle and giggle, peppering him with questions and stories of toys and preschool.
He is patient and laughs right along with him.
We talk while we cook. He puts garlic salt on the eggs and relishes in flavor.
He’s going to be a chef.
We drive around town the next day, looking at old houses and thinking up stories for each dilapidated building.
The Beatles play and we sing along, top of our lungs.
We tell each other everything, he and I.
Sometimes we get mad and we yell and we wave our hands around while we talk.
Passionate about everything and always dramatic, both of us.
But we always end up laughing. We crack up till we’re rolling on the floor.
We can never stay upset long.
We live a few hours apart, separate lives.
And yet, this connection will always be.
Brother and sister.
Everyone needs a 19 year old brother.