x


Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero. 

-Marc Brown

            Today is my little brother’s fourteenth birthday. For the past three years or so, his age has been altered in conversation because, frankly, I forgot how old he was. The time-travel-DeLorean of my thoughts would rocket his age from 10 to 12 in a matter of three seconds of 88-miles-per-hour of forgetful pre-Alzheimer’s. And, for that, I apologize.

            Last year, instead of buying him a present, I wrote him a poem that I forgot (again, the Alzheimer’s) to give him:

                        Birthday

The July sun beats down on

cracked marble tiles

and the sound of tiny, Velcroed tennis shoes slapping

cool hospital floor

echoes through scurrying hallways,

sprinting up the stairs, sending shockwaves upon shockwaves

ricocheting ahead, signaling the newly-four-year-old’s arrival.

His faded freckled shirt

ripples with excitement,

an equally faded stuffed animal swung under his arm.

And the squeak of the door reflects

the squeal of surprise, the stuffed animal is thrown to the side because

the red, wrinkled bundle wrapped in the carefully ironed blue blanket

is a  new playmate,

the best kind.

This year he got Airsoft guns and movie tickets. I think he likes those better.