It was a couple of months after my brother’s 4th birthday when I was born. He became the big brother with “the responsibilities”. The very first one was to pick a name for me. He picked out a cute girl at his nursery school, gave me a similar name and hoped that I would become as cute. Well, that was the hope.
I grew up being his sister. I ate the food he cooked. I read the books he rent. I listened to all sorts of stories he liked to tell. He always likes telling stories. When we were little, there were a lot of power cuts in summer evenings. I would sit in the dark scratching away mosquito bites and listening to every single word of his stories. He tells them in paper now for a living. There are books. There are scripts. There are movies named him as scriptwriter. I sometimes lose track of his stories. Being faraway is more a distraction than some mosquito bites in hot damp summer evenings I guess.
It is his birthday today. I wish I were having food with him rather than typing this blog. I could have caught up with his stories.
nightcactus 