Last night you texted me, around 10pm as you so often do. But instead of a clever catchphrase for hello, how are you like usual, you said, "I miss ya Ash."
I was sitting by my phone, reading on the couch, and I was filled with warmth and touch of terror. Something had probably happened. Because that's where my mind goes. So I responded that I missed you, too, and was everything okay?
Yes, of course, you responded. You were just telling the girl you're dating (but not a girlfriend, I know) about me, and you wanted to remind me that you missed me. The only boy who still, after more than twenty years, has the capacity to make my heart melt.
You, baby brother, are my best friend for life. I was eight when you was born and as soon as I saw you, I was inhabited by a fierce maternal (sisternal?) instinct to protect this little boy with the almost black hair and tiny adorable feet. I rocked you. I changed your diaper. I adored you.
Now we've lived apart for almost ten years. Can you believe that? And every day, unless you're pissing me off, I miss you. The biggest advantage to packing up and moving back home is that you're there. You think we should either move away together (Las Vegas has come up, really?) or get an apartment just you and me. We would have so much fun. And, I have a feeling, I would be so ridiculously tired keeping up with a nearly 21 year old. Did I have this much energy and capacity for alcohol at 21? I really doubt it. On my twenty first birthday I went to the Olive Garden with a handful of good college friends and had a glass of White Zinfandel. Because, well, that's me.
You could move to New York with me, too. I would teach you the subway system so you wouldn't get too lost. Promise. Think about it.
And I'll keep pondering my next move as well. You're a heavy advantage for Pennsylvania, you know.