Dear little brother,

I don’t remember much from before kindergarten. I remember bits and pieces; random days or events. I can hardly remember a solid chunk of time without you in my life. I remember things I’ve been told and things I’ve seen in pictures. I remember going to these class things at the hospital with Mom and maybe Dad, where they prepared us for you. I remember creating a family tree. I remember your bedroom being the computer room at first, holding a desk, chair and desktop computer. I remember Mommy getting me the kid’s version of the “What to expect when you’re expecting” book, meant for kids who would soon become big siblings for the first time. But I don’t remember much more.

One of my first solid memories is the day you were born. I was five years old and in pre-k at the JCC. I was part of the first pre-k class in our JCC, being that it had just been built and you would later become one of the first babies in the baby rooms. Now, this part may have been a dream or something I created in my mind, but I solidly remember sitting in Miss Dianne’s classroom, making a rainbow out of stamps. I have no idea how true this is, but I remember it. I remember being picked up from school early by dad and getting a baby doll named Michael in the hospital, “so I could have a baby to take care of too.” I still have that doll. I was so excited to be a big sister! You were born weeks early and you were really tiny at first – you looked like a baby doll, but soon enough, you grew to be quite a chubby baby.

Just like my campers now call their little siblings their "babies," you were my baby. You wanted to do everything I did and you’re the reason I got a lock on my door. You always wanted to play with my friends and me, but you were just my pesky little brother. I still don’t like you hanging out with my friends when they’re over, but that’s because you’re annoying. I loved to read to you and you loved when I read to you. I would read bedtime stories to you every so often.

I remember your first word was “cho cho”, because you couldn’t say “Nicole”. You called yourself Elmo because you couldn’t say “Evan." You used to be scared of the mummy exhibits at museums, dogs and people in costumes (like the Times Square people). I specifically remember you being scared of the person in the Spiderman costume at the Sands Shopping Center.

I want to say thank you and I’m so proud of you. I don’t say it often, but you know I love you to pieces. I may not show it all the time, but it’s always there— hidden under the meaningless “I hate you's” and the “get out's." I love our board game days and playing Fallout together. I love when we laugh about something so stupid for hours and nobody questions it. I love how we can understand each other (or at least I can understand you) when nobody else can and our bonding times. I may not always want you in my room or talking to me but that’s nothing personal, it’s a me thing. I couldn’t imagine my life without you, and I wouldn’t want to.

Lastly, I want to say how proud I am of you. You’re kinda starting to grow into a young man, and as much as that scares me, I’m also so insanely proud of how far you’ve come and what you’ve accomplished. With the colitis and school and everything. I’m so proud that you’re taking chemistry next year and that you’re a smart cookie.

Over the past 15 years, we’ve had our fights, arguments, debates, stupid conversations, inside jokes, days spent laughing at nothing and everything at the same time, and forming an unbreakable bond. Thank you for being the best brother ever; for supporting me always and for never failing to make me smile. Thank you for always being my NAM escort and for never failing to point out that you’re taller than I am.

I love you so much.

Love, your big sister.