My Brother and Me

“Broski,” I say, stretching my arms out toward my brother. He is reluctant to return my hug, the act feels strained and foreign in this house, but after a few moments his shoulders slump and he crumples against my small frame. It is a long-awaited release, one he did not even know he needed. His shoulders are broad and muscular now, so different from the scrawny build that plagued him as a child. As he hugs me tighter I have to lift onto my tiptoes; he is four inches taller than I am, a fact that never ceases to surprise me. “I missed you,” he says. His voice is so low that it is nearly lost in the bulky hood of my gray sweatshirt. I am the only one who hears it.
It has been only fourteen days since we last saw each other but right now it seems like much longer. My brother is 18 years old; his boldness makes me jealous and his hard exterior makes me ache. But in this moment, as we hold each other in the narrow entryway of the house where we grew up, we both find comfort– even if only in the knowledge that we are not alone.