Brothers are special – and mine is very special to me. He is 2 ½ years younger. Once upon a time that was almost a “generation younger” – but no more.
We shared a room until my 13th birthday – and many, many fun and wonderful times. Because we lived in sort of “the basement” (the ground floor), our bedroom window was in part below the level of the outside sidewalk. We could take a “secret” short-cut in to the room by climbing through the window, unbeknownst to our parents.
One day Warren slipped and his foot got caught between the radiator and the window. Alas, it turned out to be broken. Our secret was out. And ‘twas I who was elected to lead him around as he sat enthroned in a little red wagon. He always made the most of the situation.
As the years went by we moved upwards and onwards. My parents, delighted to move to a larger apartment when I was 13, moved us to one right below the roof – the basement a relic of the past. But, oh, to be under a tar roof in N.Y.C. in August – not exactly a coveted position. Warren had the room with the Siamese fighting fish, and I the “music room” where we played violin duets – often more contentious than peaceful. (Who did get us out of time?)
All too soon we were off to separate colleges in N.Y.C. and thence I on my pilgrimage in pursuit of medical education. He became a tad lost in the 60s, but – as much as he could ever find himself – did so and became an editor.
Now we are separated by geography. Warren is in Brooklyn, NY and I am in Tucson, AZ. Yet we speak frequently and are each other’s mutual support. We share a treasure trove of memories, a love of books and music, and many, many interesting conversations. But most of all, we share our love of each other.