Having a younger brother means several different things. It means there’s always someone who knows exactly what you’ve been through, and can laugh about it with you.
It means you’ll never have to go through a dreary family assembly alone. There will always be that person who will sneak out with you for a fag, or share a bottle of wine with you when everyone else has gone home.
It means that with one look, you can convey exactly what you are feeling, across a crowded dinner table.
It means that there’s someone there who will always have your back.
My brother is four years younger than me. He’s also my best friend. If I am ever panicked, or need picking up, I call him. We don’t have a long and dreary heart to heart, but he’ll make me laugh. Knowing he is there comforts me.
He has the same wicked sense of humour as me, but he also has the biggest, most generous heart. He takes people at face value, always has. While I obsess and worry and judge and pick, he accepts life for what it is and looks it in the face, always smiling.
He is the only person who will book my birthday off as holiday every year. The only person who would stay out all night partying for my 30th, dressed as a sheriff, and then complete a 50 mile bike ride in the stinking heat the next day.
He’ll be standing at the front at my wedding.
Today he is leaving for six months. He’s spent a year saving up, has packed in his job and is slinging a pack on his back to see what else is out there for him.
I know that he’s going to grow an enormous amount during this trip. I know that he is going to have the most wonderful adventure and I can’t even begin to articulate how proud I am of him. Also, how much I’m going to miss him.
Here’s to you, bro. Have a good one. I love you.
I always won the feet game.