I was not born to have a brother in blood. My brother in blood was unborn, unbreathing, lost to the crusade of time and fate.
No, I was not born to have a brother in blood, but a brother I have.
A brother I have; in love and choice. A brother I found at my low, a brother has stood by me, before I saw him as such.
My brother lives in Sweden, and of the family I've been able to choose, I'm glad I found him.
It was no pen pal experience, no foreign exchange, it was what my collective youth is mocked for; the internet, and our humor abhorrent.
My brother's name is Charlie, though I sometimes call him Max, though that doesn't change that he is my brother, a very simple fact.
He's got eyes unlike mine, soulful and brown, warm and loving, the soil of earth's crown.
He likes wine and he likes whiskey, he's a riot if you catch him tipsy.
He can play the ukulele, Against Humanity he can play a brutal game of cards, but best of all when I'm feeling low, he picks me up by the heart.
He's my little brother, but to me it's easy to see where he has lived just a bit more of life than me. That said, I've been in more fights than he, and what a sight would be be, me part Aussie and he a Swede.
Me screaming at him across the bar "Fight me!" and his tired reply, "Andi... please."
I could see him rolling his eyes and taking a shot, then hauling me out, before someone called the cops.
He loves dogs, he loves cows, it's funny to see his reaction when I say either of them are around.
"Picture now!" He'll demand, and I'll allow, because it's family, we're pals.
He's my little brother, it's funny and plain to see. As clear as the fact that he isn't at all related to me.
I get to build my family, to deconstruct the tradition, and I get to choose the nuts that go up in this tree!
