Only the roles have changed.

YESTERDAY

My first memory of my brother is not my memory. It comes from the snippet of a movie filmed by my dad shortly after I was born. I am plopped upon the bed, flopping like a fish just landed on shore. My limbs are all too spastic, and my head is too heavy for my neck. Sprawled beside me, my brother laughs like there’s no tomorrow, and his eyes gleam from future pranks he’s got in store.

That sums up my future.

I’d assumed the point was to make me laugh, not to generate laughter at my expense.

But that is the subject of another story.

My brother did make me laugh, not always by leading me into self-mortifying acts but also by allowing me to eavesdrop on and observe some rather snarky antics.

Yes, I’m thinking about his continual sabotaging of Dad’s obsessive predilection for photographing his two boys.

“Just act natural,” our dad instructed.

My brother did just that. Much to Dad’s chagrin and irritation.

Fortunately, he also had a clear idea of what comprised his big brother role. That is, he felt a compelling obligation to both protect and teach. After all, he always reached each life milestone two-and-a-half years before me. Therefore, he had mature experience on his side to guide me.

Like telling me I had to kiss my first girlfriend goodnight at the end of our third date. It was the most anti-climactic end to any date I’ve had. Rubbery and non-emotive. Like kissing a balloon. My fault. Later, I learned to do much better.

There was nothing funny about my brother curb-smashing our neighbor’s head after the bully punched me in the stomach. Preventing an early life of incarceration, the boy’s mother stopped him before more stitches were required.

I may be distorting the nature of my brother’s influence on me.

After all, our most authentic inclination as two young fellows was staring out to sea.

A perfect metaphor for our future.

I meant to set you up for how we lived our later yesterdays by telling you that.

Interim years found our paths intersecting at random intervals.

After High School, he joined the Marine Corps while I headed off to University and protested the war he was fighting.

He got married. I got married. He had a son. I had a son.

Our mother died.

Our lives seemed to parallel one another constantly, even when he lived in San Diego, and I lived in Alaska.

A common factor remained our shared inclination for staring out to sea.

One evening, after my return to San Diego, sporting older faces, with divorce imminent for him and long past for me, we sat in his backyard discussing what we’d finally come to.

“I’m going to quit my job to explore the world,” he said.

“Me too,” I said.

For the next seven-and-a-half years, we did just that.

We traveled from Mexico to the End of the World in Patagonia.

We traveled from Iceland into Southeastern Europe.

One day, while walking around Greece, he turned to me and asked, “Does the sidewalk seem to be moving up and down to you?”

He’d had a stroke.

TODAY

I stripped the covers from his bed. I pulled him into a semi-sitting position. I pushed him one way and the other to place a support sling beneath his butt. I attached the four metal clamps to their supports. I moved the lever forward, and the sling began to rise. His head slumped forward against the rail. I rolled him to the room where he does his private business. I cleaned him up and rolled him back to bed. I lowered him, and he leaned slowly back, returning to his normal prone position. From which he watches television all day long. His sight is all messed up. He cannot stand, even with support. But his mind is still alert and delights me into laughter, often at my expense.

Yesterday, he was my brother.

Today, he is my brother.

Only our roles have changed.