I have no recollection of being one year old. There were probably many times I fell over like a tiny drunken sailor, and I’m sure I must have spit up on myself and shoved fistfuls of Cheerios into my mouth. But really, I may have also been the mastermind behind a Soviet spy network. Because I have absolutely no recollection of anything whatsoever.
But a picture cannot lie. So one thing I know for sure is that when I was one year old, my big brother loved me.
It didn’t start off that way, or so it appears from this photo. Clearly my brother is not at all sure about what my parents have brought home.
But soon he must have figured out that I was a bit of alright. In photo after photo, my big brother always has his arm around me. It’s as if he’s saying, “Hey little sister…stick with me kid. I’ll take care of you.” (Or perhaps my mom was constantly saying, “Now, Matt, put your arm around your sister.”) But either way, he’s always right next to me, making sure to tell the world that we’re connected.
And he’s still doing the same thing today. Maybe we aren’t sitting on a couch with legs that don’t make it to the end of the cushion, but he’s still always by my side. And it’s never clearer to me that my big brother loves me than when we run. He’s a faster runner than I am, so in every race–no matter if it’s a 5k or the marathon we ran last June–he’s done first. And every time I cross the finish line, he’s there waiting for me with water. It’s such a small gesture, but it means so much to me because as tired as he is, he’s still thinking about me and worrying about me. Because he’s such a great big brother.
The pictures cannot lie. And so it is that I’m certain that when I was a year old I was loved by my big brother. I just hope that somewhere between the spitting up and spy networks I put my arm around him as if to say, “Right back at you, big brother.”