I walked up the stairs to find the warmth of an evening stove ease the ache his absence had left. I hugged him. His thinner, slightly older, smaller self. His eyes were burdened with the look of a dozen sleepless nights; yet when he smiled his thousand-watt grin, I knew he’d hold on to that last, fraying thread of hope until it simply snapped and he’d fall up to heaven.

As the dishes clinked gently while we washed up, I saw the tear slowly gathering in the corner of his eye. I saw him wipe it off his cheek, saw him wash his gray-grief hurt away in the dirty dishwater. I saw how he was so much older than the 17 year old brother I’d said goodbye to just a year before.

Like an apple in a pear tree, he had never belonged. He called me his big sister, even though I’m three years his junior. Childhood Saturdays were spent indoors, away from lemonade stands and baseball games. Friends never came to visit.

But he’s not alone. I climbed up that pear tree and I’m not coming down until he falls. Back up to heaven.