For My Brother

We grew up in the same house but different childhoods— you got the version after they figured some things out. I got the version where they were still guessing. We communicated in the language of brothers: punches that meant I love you, silences that meant I'm scared too, insults so precise they were almost compliments. You borrowed my clothes and my confidence and wore both better than I did. I borrowed your courage and never gave it back. We don't say I love you. We say: You good? We say: Did you eat? We say: Call me if you need anything, knowing you won't call and I won't either and that's our version of trust. You are the only person alive who remembers the same childhood I do— the couch, the argument, the song mom played when she thought we weren't listening. Brother, I am not good at saying this so I'll say it badly: you are the first friend I ever had. The one I didn't choose but would choose again— every time, without thinking.