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There were nine years between my sister and me, and only two between my two youngest brothers and me; one was two years older, and the other was two years younger. We had another brother between my sister and the older of the two, and two more brothers older than my sister. My sister and I shared a room and a bed until she left home at the end of her post-graduate year of high school, at about nineteen. But we didn't share much else, until she began having children and I became one of their babysitters. Then, because we both loved her children, we began to grow closer.

However, my two youngest brothers, and the middle one, were all friends and did a lot of things together. I was actually closest to my middle brother; he taught me many things that have stood me in good stead throughout my life. He and my brother two years older than me taught me how to shoot marbles, how to throw and catch footballs and softballs, how to bat, how to kick a football, how to play washers, and how to ride a bicycle. My youngest brother was the one who ended up being a good friend to my first husband and me, after he and I had both married and began having children. He was the one who also went to college, at the same school I attended. We were close friends with each other, and our mates were friends, too-that is, until I left my first husband. Then my brother chose to take my ex-husband's side in the divorce, so our own relationship went sour. It has never recovered.

My middle brother was the one who double-dated with me, took me places when no one else would do so (or Mother wouldn't let me go by myself, without at least one of my brothers!), and even helped teach me how to drive. He and his second wife and my second husband and I became friends and spent time together. My second husband had also known that brother well growing up; they had worked together on many jobs.

My sister and I finally became friends about four or five years before our mom died. Mother had been visiting my first husband and our family, and had not been well. My father wanted to take her home, so my youngest brother and I took her back home, and she ended up in the hospital, because she had quit breathing two or three times on the way from our house. I stayed with my sister and her husband quite a lot within the next two weeks, and we rode back and forth between her house and the hospital together. We grew very close during that time, as we talked about our lives growing up, dealing with our brothers (and with Mother and Daddy's rules), and how to deal with our parents' growing inability to care for themselves.

The tie that we formed during those times continued to be strong. The only thing that broke that tie was her death over a year ago, on the day after her birthday. I am still close to my brother two years older than me; he recently had to undergo surgery to have a stent put in his heart; I spent the day with him and his wife in his room, holding his hand so he wouldn't bend his arm where the IV was inserted in his elbow. He had a very strong grip, and at times my hand went almost dead, but I was glad to do it for him. It was all I could do to help, so I did it, and would do so again. He is still my friend: my brother!

Learn more about this author, Barbara A. Black.
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