He is not there

Yvette, I wish I could hold your hand today while all of those balloons are let loose in Wilson Woods. You know that I would not send plastic into the sky, not even for him. But I wish I was there to hold your hand, Hermanita, while you send off your balloon. While you say to the sky, "Happy Birthday, Big Brother." I wish I was there to tell you funny stories about him. I wish I could tell you the story of how I chased your brother through the halls of Pelham High School when I saw him flirt with another girl, and how he ran from me when he saw my face, and how he was right to run because I would have cut him that day. And how he teased me for months after about my angry face.

And how when I was sad he would sometimes put on one of my dresses and dance around shaking his butt to meringue until I had to laugh. His big old body in a dress.

And about how desperately sad he was when you pushed your Momma down that flight of steps because he knew you would never forgive yourself. He forgave you right away. He understood how mean she was to you.

Did you know that he talked about you every time I saw him, Yvette? He talked about how beautiful you had become. He talked about how you were going to school like he never would. How you were becoming a dental hygienist, and you would get out, and you would be OK.

He got out, too, Yvette. It was the only way he saw how to get out. Your big brother is not stuck anymore. He is not there.