Happy birthday, little brother. -- Part 2

Occurs to me that my previous post is a little misleading. I sort of go to great lengths on the production/ranting thing, but this day is actually about my little brother, and the man deserves something. After all, he's sixteen, goddammit.

Aaron was the first baby I'd ever held -- I was seven years old, and he was barely a couple of days alive. It was... humbling. This memory exists in a strange time, all grandparents were still alive and I was still in the mindset of the divorced only child. The first of those things would change before Aaron reached his first year, the latter, to this day, may still be the case for me.

There are some memories that stand out. I remember us getting big red welts from playing with plastic swords. I remember chipping his tooth in surprisingly lighter rough housing the sword thing. And I remember vaguely wishing we didn't fight so damn much, but hey, we were brothers. I've been told that's what we do.

Been proud of the kid a lot, but we've always kept our lives our own, and I'm sure the things I'd have been most jazzed about he hasn't told me. And I'm fine with that. I always joke [and quote "The Last Crusade"], saying I had to leave the house just as he was starting to get really interesting. But, hey... he's always been interesting. I can just relate to him better now. Sometimes, I don't feel much different than I did at sixteen.

Next week, he's getting his driver's license, and we've already got some rough plans to swing round about the mall and have coffee. Which is funny to me, because while I don't know much, I'm pretty sure the kid would rather have a beer.


To your Birthday, Aaron. Many happy returns.

"With mirth and laughter, let old wrinkles come."


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