~ from OCTOBER 2004 ~
It is the first time I see so much blood up close. My brother is throwing a temper tantrum, crying and shrieking for something long forgotten, throwing himself off the couch and hitting his head on the corner of a table. Blood is suddenly everywhere and the screaming escalates. It is unbearable for me to hear, and, unless I have a child of my own one day, I will never know how much worse it is for my mother. She scoops him up and examines him before whisking us both to the hospital.
I wait outside of the emergency room door and catch a few glimpses of Dr. Miller, my father’s friend who eats all of his dinner and proves and eternal example whenever my brother and I don’t feel like eating. After a number of stitches later, the memory dissolves.
A happier recollection takes place in the same room. We are in the toy box together. When we play I sometimes stop to fix his hair. There is a certain way it lies that I like better, and a certain way when we aren’t getting along that makes it easier to hate him. He gets a kick out of this, out of when I stop to move a strand or lock. Sometimes he brushes it back, sometimes he smiles and allows it to remain.
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