It all started when I had just turned three, just me, with my parents, just us three. It was fun at first when we moved from Iran, but it quickly got boring, playing around with no one around or just ignoring. But, after a year, there was newborn coming. I was excited, no more sitting around and humming. Brother came along and constantly crying, acting like he was always just about dying.
Then I saw everyone’s eyes on the little brother. Here I was, with all the attention on him and not another. But he was still a little boy I couldn’t wait to play with. I was no longer sitting bored, I thought, ‘now here’s a kid to spend my day with’.
All in all, I was mostly just excited. I remember the love, the passion we had ignited.
I couldn’t wait for him to stand up, walk and talk and get older, but then I saw how his attitude just got bolder. Year after year, he just got taller, making me feel even less relevant, and even smaller. This is why I miss the olden days, when he was shorter. He just listened, obeyed, played games and didn’t question orders.
Kidding aside he is a big man now, he has really really grown. I’m really proud of him, how he has a life of his own. We truly had missions when we were young, confused and happy, together we clung. Even through the wintertime, being with him, it always felt like spring had sprung.