The steam hadn’t even cleared from the bathroom mirror when I heard it – that urgent newborn cry that sends any mother running. I emerged dripping wet to find something that still makes my breath catch remembering it.
My nonverbal brother Eli sat motionless in the glider, my colicky son finally calm against his shoulder. Eli’s fingers, which usually fluttered with nervous energy, moved with deliberate tenderness along the baby’s spine. The afternoon sun painted them both gold, and for the first time in our thirty years together, I saw my brother completely at peace.
Then he turned those familiar brown eyes to mine and spoke for the first time since elementary school: “He smells like stars.” The poetry of it, the profound simplicity, left me clutching the doorframe. That night, as Eli hummed our childhood lullaby to my son, I realized some bonds transcend words – until love finds the perfect moment to give them voice.
