Because I Do Miss Him

He's 23 and no longer a baby and but I still think of him as my baby brother even now as I, The Firstborn, seek him out for help, for support, to implore him to not forsake me to the lonely realm of The Only Child to where I once belonged.

My baby brother. My granted wish taken back too quickly. Born four pounds (but now so fat). Shriveled and yellow. Sickly. Sockie. The Favorite Child. The Boy. The Crybaby. I know now you are happy. You have a new family now. You exchanged your Only Sister for a whole collection of Brothers. In your letters you feel self-assured enough to write to me words of wisdom and comfort. Indeed you have become godlike in your silence. In your farawayness and seclusion.

I arrive at his house which smells sharp like freshly-cut wood and is beautiful. While Sockie is being called, someone gives me a tour. My slippered feet hardly make a sound on the polished-to-a-shine wooden floor. The delicious smell of ginger in the air. Outside sounds from near and far enter faintly -- footsteps on cobblestones, skirts rustling, a fishing net flung to the sea, rain.

The library catches my eye and I want to explore it but my tour guide prods me on. I see hallways. Doors. Windows where concentrated light comes in. Staircases that curve and disappear.

At last. Sockie. The moment he sees me he bursts into tears. He bursts into tears! The nerve! My First Born Thinking Cap is slipped on automatically and I think, "For sure I will be blamed for this. I must control this damage." Out of guilt (for his unknown suffering I am sure I did not cause) and martyred discipline (as if Mama was watching) and because I do miss him. I let out a tiny sigh and hug him to comfort him and ask him, "Sockie, what's the problem now?"