Zacky-Poo

The other day I arrived at what I thought was a startling revelation: my brother is the only person that I've known for their entire life.

I remember when he made a grand entrance into this word; I remember his first steps; I remember the first time he careened over the side of his crib; I remember him crying with pure anger on his first day of school; I remember his first video game (that was actually mine); I remember more of his life than he does.

I know every nuance of his existence, simply because I've spent more time with him than any other human on this earth. I know all his favorite foods (even the crap, fake pizza from Golden Coral) and how he doesn't eat the grape Sweetarts (gives them to me). I know how he never sleeps at the same angle is his bed every night. I know how he never picks up a drink until he finishes his entire meal. I know how his hair won't lay flat in some places and how it reacts the exact same way mine does to sun, chlorine, and rain.

Even though we're about as different as two siblings we can be, there are certain experiences that link us intricately and uniquely. I didn't teach anyone else how to play every board game on the planet or the good seats on the bus or the finer points of surviving school lunches. I didn't invent games (such as the infamous "zzz zzz" that annoyed mom to no end and the ever-pleasant "Toss the Rufum") that only we know the rules to with very many other people. I didn't ride in the backseat of a mini-van, fighting over which VHS to watch or what course to play on Mario Kart ("NOT Rainbow Road!" "But you picked last time!" "But I'm older!" " But I'm winning!"), or making up extensive stories with stuffed animals (who occasionally broke into vigorous dance to whatever was on the radio) so he wouldn't ask "are we there yet?" with anyone else.

Some of my favorite weekends have been spent holed up in his room, playing massive video game marathons all day, only breaking to eat and fight. We would laugh and laugh and laugh until mom came in to see what was so funny, but neither of us could explain it adequately.

Sometimes, when I begin to feel overwhelmed, I retreat back to that place. Our marathons have grown scarce since we've both grown into teenhood, but this Saturday, we left our cell-phone-facebook-teenager clogged worlds behind, and lost ourselves to Raving Rabids, Blow Pops, and our patented "That's-what-she-said" wars.

Every morning as he exits the (debatable) safe shelter of my car and hurries into worlds unknown, in his 13-year-old boy standard-issue hobo uniform, I want to grab the handle of his bookbag and pull him back in with all the pseudo-motherly strength of an older sister. I know what happens in that place and he's morphing into a new human being, one that I don't know. One I can't watch grow up as closely from the confines of a play pen.

But I don't have to be scared, because as different as we may be, we come from the same foundation. Two people made of the same substance growing in different directions. He can never grow too far away from me. After all, we'll always have "Toss the Rufum."