I’ve been watching my boys play in the front yard. They started off riding bikes and have moved on to rolling a baseball back and forth in the driveway. The older is kind enough to modify the practice session to accommodate the younger who can’t yet catch the hard ball.
I study his face and see a mini-me, a mini-uncle, a mini-grandfather. It’s a wonder to behold. His eyes, mouth and freckles so clearly display his genealogy. He could be mistaken for no one other clan than ours. I watch him try on different personalities – the jock, the musician. And all I see is a good kid with a kind heart.
I cannot see my younger boy in this moment. He is up the driveway outside of my window view. I can hear him though. He is larger than life. He demands his brother’s attention. Each time he misses the ball he commands that his brother help get it. He loves his brother rewarding him with a **whack** each time he runs past to help retrieve the ball.
I remember loving my brother like that. Unable to avoid the many opportunities to **whack** him when he wasn’t looking. It was worth it if only for the moment when he’d turn in response and I held his complete attention. It’s true that ruptures of laughter were short lived and gave way instead to cries of pain. But no one else could be closer to me. He was my brother and as much as his friends loved him and girls swooned for him only I knew how to capture his complete and total energy and attention.
I see that in my boys. They will be closer to each other than anyone. They will entertain each other, hurt each other, console each other, laugh at and with each other. At least this is my prayer. And I will try to moderate that relationship such that the younger one avoids crossing any lines he might regret. One too many **whacks** is hard to take back.