He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

My brother calls me.

My brother was my best friend until I was eight, hated me until I was eighteen, and now we end every conversation with "love you." I idolized this man when I was a kid. He hated Coke, so I was pro-Pepsi, even though I don't really like colas. He couldn't stand Michael Jordan, and I still have problems with Jordan as the greatest player of the game. We were Lakers fans. I hid my New Kids on the Block poster in my closet in 3rd grade because I knew he would make me take it down. I would have done anything to be liked by him. Or to make him laugh.

When I told him about myself, he told me he loved me, that if I wanted him here he would be here, and that he would rip apart anyone who ever gave me trouble.

Which I believe, because he is always proving to me that his hands are "lethal weapons" and that he is "trained to kill" by putting me in some ridiculous headlock/armlock/hand-crushing/chokehold each Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthday, Easter, summer, spring, fall, winter.

This is the guy you want in your corner.

My brother calls me.

A lot.

Usually early in the morning because he is on his way to Guard drill or he's in some other time zone for training or he's coming home from the bar.

Almost always, I pick up the phone and am greeted by his really terrible falsetto.

This morning, it was Fleetwood Mac's "Hold Me."

I'm just around the corner
If you got a minute to spare
I'll be waitin for you
If you ever wanna be there

Hold me, hold me, hold me
Hold me, hold me, hold me