Below is my essay that was published on This I Believe.

Besides for my stuffed purple chick with one foot and a crooked beak, my brother Eric was my first best friend. My crib became his eleven months later, and eventually we shared a small room together. Our beds were so close, we’d jump from one to the other in our footed pajamas until my mom’s exhausted voice shouted up the stairs to lie in the beds and not jump on them.

Everyone outside of our family assumed that we were twins.  I’d always point out that I was taller. Aside from my longer hair, that was the only difference. We had the same chocolate eyes and the same shade of brown for hair; we’d make the same facial expressions—usually silly ones.

I would moan and complain and curl up on the couch when I had what my parents called “growing pains” in my legs. When it came to Eric, he would giggle, run to the refrigerator, and try to figure out how big the gap was between his head and the freezer door. There was never a reason for it, besides the fact that it excited us, but my father would take out his measuring tape and tell us how many more inches we had to grow until our heads reached the freezer door. I’d chase after my brother just to make sure I still had height on him. Read More