Little Brother

From this distance, he is perfect, like a little figurine. He swings his rosy-pink arms, tosses his too-large head, turns to speak to the boy behind him. That smile, sweet as tea— it’s wider and kinder than I remember. He’s growing into his limbs, and into his own dear skin; I was worried he never would. As long as he’s nothing like his sister, he’ll be fine.

Just let me reach out and touch him. No, I will only say hello. From far away, he is beautiful, he is so beautiful and for all the world I would not spoil this. His friends and his favorite things, the sunshine and the dew, soccer on the lawn, I must not touch one mite of it. But he needs to know how proud we are, and he needs to know I care. Only one step closer, and I’ll shout his name.

Haven’t I cursed him enough? He was in my shadow since a child. From here, in the street, not in his orbit, he‘s a figurine. He‘s perfect because I can’t reach him. He runs with his odd gait toward the ball, craning forward, grinning at a small blonde girl. All the children laugh, and I laugh with glee because I can watch him, enjoy the brilliant light that is him. From here, I can love him for him and not for what he is to me.