He ain't heavy, he's my brother

I have two younger brothers. The youngest of which was born when I was five. Upon his birth, I was convinced that my mother bore him just for me. He was mine to raise. Mine to lead through life and mine to worry about. He was my responsibility.

He hasn't always taken the easy road, but seems to be headed on a new path now, living six hours away, so we don't touch base very often. He really doesn't need me to navigate any more.

He and his wife welcomed their first child earlier this year and we made the trek to see the happy family. I gazed at him (and all of his hairiness) and was proud, amazed and a little sad. My little brother had grown up. It had taken him longer than most of us, but he was headed toward the land of adulthood.

I don't know what got me to thinking about him today, but I find myself missing him and wishing he was near. So, I am writing a little something here. I should pick up the phone instead, but I think maybe I am having a delayed empty nest attack and nobody sounds good crying on the phone.

The photo here is of a mug that he made for me for a birthday long ago. He's a talented artist and has mastered all media. He doesn't often remember my birthday, but when he does, it touches me that he can be so thoughtful. If the house caught fire, this I would save.