eras

from kindergarten through third grade, I attended the local elementary school half a mile away from my house. at some point during that period, my brother (two years younger) and I were allowed to bike to and from school alone (at least that's how I remember it now). I suppose I was meant to be the one looking out for him. we locked our bikes up at the bike rack with dozens of other bikes to go to school and then, at the end of the day, reversed the process and met each other there to ride back home. I can still visualize exactly the section on the field where the bikes stood huddled together in an immense sea of light green, closely manicured grass.

one day my brother did something that made me mad. this in itself is not surprising, as he designed his life to annoy me and vice versa. but what is surprising is that my second or third grade self responded by swinging my bike lock chain at his head, where it made contact with a dull thwack.

I was lucky--he wasn't seriously or permanently hurt, though I'm pretty sure a bump rose up on his forehead. I don't remember exactly what happened--how we got home, whether a teacher intervened, what my parents said. but I do remember to this day how scared I was that I had done something that terrible.

there are so many places this story takes me in my head right now--meditations on childhood, shame, freedom, relationships, my particular family. but for some reason today, right now, this story is my own strange way to say happy birthday to my brother who turned 37 yesterday.

not because I'm saying sorry after thirty years, though of course I was sorry the moment I swung that chain. simply because I'm saying I remember. at this stage in life--the middle stage--real, unsentimental memories can sometimes be the best gift of all.