I can’t write about one brother, and not my other one, especially one with more seniority. I have an older brother named Jason. And if Zach was my gift, Jason was my sentence. (Don’t worry; I know he felt the same way about me.) He brings out the brat in me. I think it’s because he’s so serious, and tries to be macho. You do Jason. I blame Sylvester Stallone. Jay was reared on Rocky, Rambo, and the almighty Cobra, and took them to heart. I swear to this day that the reason Jason became a state trooper is because of his infatuation with Cobra.
But when I try to think of one story that explains my relationship with him, I can’t.
He’s in almost every childhood memory I have. They’re not all idyllic either. I could paint a picture of children roaming free on the farm. Swimming, fishing, and horseback riding. And there were all of those things. But we fought. A lot.
When I sat down to write about him, I expected to tell you about one of our many battles. Maybe about the time I ruined his matchbox cars, and the fact that thirty years later he still holds a grudge. Yes Jason, I know, if I hadn’t ruined them, they’d be worth thousands.
Or the time I shot him in the arm with a BB gun. Point blank. Or when I scratched him in the eye, and he had to go to the hospital. Or when he knocked me out. Twice. He swears that both times were accidents, but I know better.
But I also remember him helping me move into my college dorm room. We took the last load of my belongings up to my room, and set them down. “Is that all?” Jason asked. “I think so,” I replied in a small voice.
“Okay, see ya later,” he says. “See ya,” I felt a knot forming in my stomach as he walked out the door.
I remember looking around my small dorm room. The white cinderblock walls were a stark contrast to the warmth of the home I’d always known. I felt lost, afraid. Alone.
There was a knock on my door. I opened it up, and there was Jason. He didn’t say a word. He just gave me a hug, because he knew that I needed one. And I wasn’t afraid anymore.
Jason and I are good for each other. With his seriousness rubbing off on me and my nonsense rubbing off on him.
When I think of him now, this is what comes to mind:
You taught me how to ride a bike,
Standing behind me pushing me forward.
Better than that, you let me fall,
Always there, helping me get started again.
You taught me how to fight,
I stood toe to toe with you.
I never backed down from you because I was a girl.
You never expected me to.
You taught me how to laugh at myself,
Or maybe we taught each other.
You taught me to be a rival, a sister, a friend;
You taught me how to be me.