Sweet brother o’ mine

A psychic once told my parents that my brother was an old soul. She even went as far as telling them that my brother had been a monk who had lived a quiet yet worthy life somewhere in Europe.

The first time I heard this, I laughed. I was 12 years old, and to me, my brother was just an odd boy who hardly spoke (the only distinct trait he possessed was his obsession with the Power Rangers). My brother had a strange charm to him, though, that drew people and almost everyone who’d ever encountered him developed an instant liking for him. There was something more to this boy who ate almost nothing but peanuts and cried whenever his feet touched grass.

My brother is an enigma to most people. I don’t think I’ve ever met two folks who share the same opinion of him. On the one hand, you could say that he’s your typical brat. Of the three of us, he seems to be the one who asks my parents for the most things. Shiny, red electric guitars, spanking new cell phones, boxes of one-of-a-kind basketball shoes… the things he asks for are never cheap but when he wants something, he gets it. You could say that my brother is a little sly and manipulative. I can’t tell you how many times he’s tricked me out of my money. Though, if you branded my brother as nothing more than a cocky, little capitalist, then you’d just be scratching the surface. There is more to my brother than that. Though he is younger than me, I often call him my “older brother” or my “wise brother.”

My brother is very mature for his age. He has this amazing focus and drive that I envy, having very little focus and drive myself. Everything he sets out to do, he does. And he does it well. People ask me what my brother does. I tell them that he plays basketball and is skilled at the electric guitar.

“Well, that’s not remarkable,” some say. “Most boys his age are interested in that.”

I ask them if it isn’t remarkable how my brother scores 60 points a game or if they aren’t amazed about how my brother can play Sweet Child  O’ Mine better than most 30-year-olds. It doesn’t come easy to him. My brother plays basketball almost seven hours a day. He’s been through several clinics, trainers, camps… what separates my brother from the rest is his extreme passion for whatever he does. Basketball and rock music aren’t just hobbies to him; they’re a lifestyle.

My brother is my idol. Most older sisters complain about how their little brothers are annoying little pests who go through their things and tattle on them. I’m lucky. I’m the one who tries to annoy my brother, though I always fail because he has such amazing patience. I do not have a little tattletale of a brother; on the contrary, he is my shoulder to cry on.

I’ll never totally understand him. The two of us are so different. I’m overemotional where he’s calm; I’m a mess while he’s unbelievably practical. Still, I love my brother for everything he is and for always trying to understand me even though he claims that my sister and I are the weirdest people he’s ever met.

In a few weeks he will be turning 13 and I can’t believe he is not a child anymore.