On baby brothers…

At well over six feet tall, my youngest brother is certainly no baby anymore. He is eight years my junior, which means he was in kindergarten when I graduated eighth grade.

Over the past few years, he morphed, in the way siblings do, from a squirt into a real friend. He is smart and kind and brave, and it is difficult to believe that he will graduate from high school in a few short weeks.

My baby brother–the French horn playing, retreat leading, academic whizz with a wicked sense of humor–is growing up. It’s weird and right. My kid is lucky to have an Uncle Poncho (name is currently under development–I’m sure Poncho will never stick. Oh, wait…).

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