& I will miss spending simple days with him.

A few Saturdays ago, I took my brother to Central Park for the day. We went to the Boathouse, rented a rowboat, and off we went, facing each other, me giggling and rowing and Fatlind holding on to the sides of the boat, stiff and completely convinced we would tip over.

Fatlind on the rowboat!

It took about 10 minutes for Fatlind to realize that we wouldn’t tip over unless we were absolutely determined to. I watched his face transform from an expression of fear and nervousness to one of comfort and delight. I rowed patiently and slowly and he sat there, looking around, thinking of things to say, and then blurting them out in his usual over-excited/too-loud manner of saying things.

We spent an hour and a half rowing, appreciating the peaking city skyline beyond the Central Park trees as only New Yorkers can appreciate such a mix of environments. Eventually, Fatlind took over the paddles for a while and demonstrated that he too could row and “take care of me” as I took care of him. We munched on trail mix and bananas and I said “Stay hydrated” about 100 times and Fatlind, knowing me all too well, placed my Blackberry safely back into my backpack about 10 times after I had carelessly flung it without a care. It was all perfect.

The favorite family fruit and Bananagrams.

After rowboating and an unexpected explanation of what “vaginosis” is—(a condition deriving from “being the P word”, according to Fatlind -__-), we walked a while to find a place where we could play. My brother had brought along his soccer ball and his football and I had brought along Bananagrams with hopes of weaving in some educational activity into the day.

After we ruled out playing catch because I realized that my post-surgery eye can’t follow the ball in its trajectory, we moved on to soccer. We kicked the ball back and forth a while then Fatlind waved me over, as if to say “Come show me what you got”. The 12 year old broke out into his ball handling moves and as I approached him, the ball went every which way except for my way and I reduced the game to a game of tag—me running away with the ball because running is all I am athletically capable of.

Fatlind became instantly excited and engaged. For two hours, we went from laying down under a tree to kicking the ball and chasing each other, and when I looked at him, he was happy doing just these simple things with me. And that’s when it happened—that’s when I realized for the first time in my life that one day, a day at the park with me won’t be as appealing as a day at the movies with someone else, or a day anywhere with anyone other than me, for that matter. I’ve celebrated my brother’s birthdays in the form of a countdown all of his life: __ number of years till he’s 18. I’ve celebrated his growth, his trek towards independence and away from the same vulnerabilities of childhood that kept me inside of my head all of my life and now manage to keep me too tightly attached to his hip even when I’m hundreds of miles away. 

I’ve realized that, as much as I cannot wait for him to be a man, I will miss spending simple days with him, listening to his stories and embarrassing him with my public display of affection. I will miss sitting in front of him in the face of challenges and seeing the transformation of his face from fear and nervousness to one of comfort and delight. For the first time in the last 12 years, his inevitable growth feels bittersweet. I will love Fatlind, the man, but I will miss Fatlind, the boy.