There’s this magic in people, a little extra dose of something when they smile. The crookedness of their grin, the sparkle deep in their eye, for Brady it’s the deepset crease of his dimples. Most of the time they wink out at me after he’s farted on my hand, or has taught our little brother phrases that drive me up the wall (see: Kakaa), or when he’s asked why the answer is because for the eighth time. But sometimes, when I’ve grappled enough patience to revel in the joy of having someone smaller love you so wholly they wink out at me after he’s said I love you, or squeezed me in a hug so tight my intestines are coming out somewhere, or cuddled into my side reading an Archie.
I love him in a way that prevails over different DNA and different intestinal sputters (see: farts). In December he snagged the coveted role of Mayor in the school Christmas Play, and my blooming pride had my finger glued on rapid fire for the entire hour. And at the end, when he smiled, I remembered I’ve got a dimple set in my chin when I smile real deep, and that’s enough of a resemblance to call us family.
This is his, 'Woman, how can you expect me to smile when I've got Estee Lauder's full line up of rouge on my cheeks?"
My other favorite brother from another mother, Isaiah and his daddy Duncan.