My Brother

Yesterday, my little brother had a birthday. He probably wouldn't want me to announce his age, but I will say that he's old enough that I don't remember his first one. That always amazes me, the fact that I don't have any memory of his advent in my life, because when it comes to someone's whose existence, whose entrance into the world, I'd want to celebrate, he's at the top of the list.

But, still no memories. I don't remember Mom's pregnancy, staying with grandparents while she was in the hospital, or the red, wrinkly, suspicious bundle that became my brother coming home. No, really - he was suspicious. Even in his first hospital picture, suitably dated by lighter-burned edges and shellacked wood plaque, he's turned partially away from the camera, squinting with his one open eye in a manner that clearly says he suspects everyone and isn't really sure about anything. Either that, or he's reacting like a hamster to the bright camera light, but knowing him as I do, I interpret it as a cosmic wariness that's never really left him. I don't remember being consulting on the naming of the at-the-time-hypothetical brother either, but have been told that I had creative suggestions. (I was two, I wanted a dog, I suggested the name Shadow - what can I say?)

Later, I remember his blue footie pajamas, his constant smell of baby shampoo and dirt, his fascination with tying knots in my jumprope and disassembling my dollhouse. I remember his presence in the dark, when we were both working hard to keep each other from being frightened. I can still conjure the memory of his hand in mine at a funeral, of the quick lie to cover for my mistakes, of Saturday morning arguments over channel 5 versus channel 12. I see a glib teenager vaulting off the edge of a moving haywagon to chase down my baseball cap and a little boy surveying a dammed creek with his hands on his hips. In my dark moments, I hear his voice in my head, the words he used to encourage me to throw caution to the wind when we were small: "We're Davises. We can do anything." Twenty-five years later, when I married, those words are the reason I didn't change my name.

Still, there's no milestone to mark his arrival in my life. Despite that fact that I have memories as early as 12-18 months and that he came along when I was 2 1/2, my mind didn't mark this momentous occasion in any meaningful way. Maybe that's as it should be. I have no first memory of him, just like I have no first memory of the other innate loves of my life. No memory of learning to read, no memory of first loving the presence of a kitty cat, no memory of my brother - he's just always there.

Innate love is a deceptive thing. People think unconditional love is something pleasant and easy, and perhaps it is for the recipient, but not for the giver. For the giver, unconditional love hurts. It worries, it disappoints, it frustrates, it angers, it infuriates. It's not that you don't experience those things with unconditional love, I learned early in life, it's just that they don't make it go away. People look for different metaphors for the enduring timelessness of love - oceans, mountains, rivers - but love's really not that elegant and majestic. In fact, if I search the landscape of my childhood for a symbol, love is multiflora rose - introduced without warning into my environment, it took root and spread with the tenacity of steel. You can hack a multiflora rose down to the ground, pour gas on the roots, set it on fire, and within months, it will be flourishing again. As mentioned, it's not elegant, but frankly, neither is love.