Friday, February 10, 2012


I love this picture of my brother. The baby is my cousin and neither boy knew then that a decade later, they would live in the same house. My brother attended BCIT and boarded with my cousin's family while he trained to be a barber. 
I must say, I recommend big brothers.
According to family legend, my brother who had enjoyed his post as youngest of three, viewed the arrival of my sister in his fifth year, dubiously. He nibbled his cuffs and collar til they frayed; an outward symbol of his inner disquietude, poor lamb.
When I arrived two years later, he was a seasoned big brother.
You can see in the photo that his opinion of babies had vastly improved from his cuff nibbling days.
I like to think that it was me who changed his mind.
Doesn't he have the hands of a violin player?
He inherited the blonde hair of his Nordic grandfather and the gentle humour of his father. Practical and wise like his Irish grandmother, thrifty and steadfast as his mother.
He was seven years older than me and I remember thinking it strange when I reached the age he was when he died. We were the same age at last.
And I remember, as time passed, that I became the one that was seven years older.
Somehow though, his place as big brother remains unchanged.
I had spent so many years looking up to him that my love has been unaltered by time and age.                                                   

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