My Brother Looks Like Me

Sam and Molly

My brother looks like me. Or maybe it’s me who looks like him. He has my same auburn hair and the same brown freckles that dance across his face. We have the same distinct noses with small bumps at the ridge and the same prominent lips that are almost always chapped. His skin is darker than mine, but he still calls us both tingers (because, in his words, we have a “tinge of the ging”). Besides that, our main difference in appearance comes down to our eyes, because they are a distinct physical trait for both of us. He has my dad’s celery greens and I have my mom’s baby blues. 

His eyes are friendly and non-judgmental and mine are often cold and distant, which is not inaccurate to our temperaments. Not that we are completely different in personality; we are both readers and laugh so hard that we (almost always) cry. We both have seen more movies than is probably healthy and we can both have the best time exploring a new city or just watching reruns of Friends all day (and arguing about whether it’s Ross or Rachel who is really the main character). And anyone who knows us at all knows we both have absurd devotions to Bob Dylan and we pretend like we know him. But he was always the better one and still is. 

People always liked Sam. We joke about how all of our cousins like Sam more than me. It is partially a joke, but it is also a bit serious (as most good jokes are). And it’s totally understandable that they—and most people—would find Sam’s personality much more appealing. He’s the most charismatic person I’ve ever known—he can work a room like a wannabe president campaigning in Iowa. He can talk to strangers for hours and never appear uninterested, because he genuinely isn’t. He cares about other people, their stories, their lives, their hopes and pains.  And he is always the funniest person in the room. This trait is made all the more striking because people are naturally drawn to everything about him—his smile, his tone, his laugh—they are all like an old friend bringing you in for a hug.  I am not like this and never have been. I’m much more removed and frequently much more pessimistic. I worry and fret, whereas he is free and relaxed. I frown and bite back, whereas he flashes his famous dimples and asks to hear more. This is also reflected in where we chose to start our lives after leaving the South—I packed up my negative energy and caught a straight flight to New York City whereas he threw his open-mind over his shoulder and hit the unpredictable road towards Portland, Oregon.

I don’t know why I was so lucky to get him. Of all the other brothers that could have been made, I know no other version could be better for me.  He will sit with me and watch Buffy and be patient when I complain about the most trivial things. He won’t make me watch sports or even interrupt me when my narcissism is at its worst and I talk about myself for hours. He’s the best friend I’ve ever known and he practically built every redeeming trait within me. That’s not to say we don’t argue—we absolutely do. But even after our worst fights, he would be the one to come into my room and wipe away my tears—and most of the time I had started it. He would forgive me so easily and it would take me hours or days or, let’s be real, even months to let things go. I don’t know why I was so lucky to get him. 

I’ll be seeing him in a few weeks and I know it will be one of the hardest trips, but also one of the most necessary ones. It’s hard to see loved ones in pain—and it’s something I’ve been lucky enough to not have to deal with frequently. It’s harder to see the better half of you in a weak state. But even a weak version of him is better than most people’s strongest selves. I love him more than anything and thinking about how much I love him makes my heart feel like it will burst out of my chest. I wish I could thank each of you individually for everything you’ve done and offered. I’ll be putting up more thoughts on this blog as Sam progresses but until then, let’s keep fighting together.

Molly Whitehorn