Months would pass without a word from him. Messages on his answering machine would go without reply.
I was ripped with guilt for what I felt I should be doing for him and fueled with anger for his denying us the right to do it.
So once again, I dove into work. I worked because I could control it.
I worked because work was sensible and responsive.
And each time I would call my brother’s apartment in Spain and get the answering machine
—him speaking in Spanish, another sign of how far apart we had drifted—I would hang up and work some more.
Perhaps this is one reason I was drawn to Morrie. He let me be where my brother would not.
Looking back, perhaps Morrie knew this all along. It is a winter in my childhood, on a snow packed hill in our suburban neighborhood.
My brother and I are on the sled, him on top, me on the bottom.
I feel his chin on my shoulder and his feet on the backs of my knees.
The sled rumbles on icy patches beneath us. We pick up speed as we descend the hill.
“CAR!” someone yells. We see it coming, down the street to our left.
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