Bro Love

When we first moved to New Jersey my mom would lock herself in the downstairs bathroom and cry everyday for a good year. She finally snapped out of it when my brother, then 5, gave his new friend a tour of our house. She heard him say, "...and this is our kitchen and this is our brown bathroom that my mom cries in because she misses New York..."

Around that same time, she felt the need to train us on what to do if someone broke into the house. "Kids, if there is ever an emergency. I will say 'Go feed the rabbits.' and then you guys run out the backdoor and get help." FYI: we lived in a nice, safe suburban area with lots of neighbors. We didn't have rabbits.

My brother reminded me of these two stories tonight. We had our monthly phone call when we both tell each other how fucked in the head we are, how we wish we were normal only to later decide normal people are boring, and how mental stability wasn't really in the cards for us considering we are our mother's children. I like these calls because I feel like he's my old platoon buddy, the only person I can talk to about life during and after the war.

We have a good laugh about mom, our self-involvement and self-loathing, and our yuppie fixes (meds, therapy, yoga, meditation). He tells me my problems are good problems and I tell him to stop obsessing about his hairline.

Rippie is turning 30 this year. It fascinates me that I've known of him for that long, but really only got to know him the past five years...

I love my brother. The end.