The first time I realized the difference
between my brother and I
was in Sunday School.
He chuckled and laughed and smiled
with the other girls
and boys in the corner
while I sat at a pew
on my phone,
alone.
I’m not religious anymore.
An introvert is what they call it,
I learned in high school.
My mom is one too.
My brother’s genes are from my dad:
unwashed and vibrant; fresh out of the package.
I wanted so badly for him to ask me to join.
To invite me to the corner
so I could grin and
bare my teeth,
filled with the metal of my braces.
He never did.
My brother and I are inherently different.
My birthday January, his June.
Mine winter, his summer.
Capricorn and Cancer.
I never realized until I got older though.
Our relationship was so awash with
“They look like twins!” and
“They’re so close in age!”
It’s hard to recognize that you’re the
Tropic of Capricorn and Tropic of Cancer
when affirmations are being
stuffed in your ears.
It’s hard to recognize that the two are
approximately 3,200 miles apart.
I feel this in the way
I never know what he’s thinking
or where he stands, and
in the way he never sees me
for who I am.
I notice when my dad asks if
we talk on the phone and I
can’t remember the last time.
Some part of it is age
and space
and time,
but some of it is who we are.
My younger brother,
so strong and unreachable, in a different way than me;
a way I will never understand.
It’s not like we can let each other in,
because he’s 3,200 miles away.