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  • My brother, Sam, and I trade "Yo Momma" jokes. That's not such an odd thing if you know our mother. We are rivals, perpetually out-doing one another with the vulgarity of our respective insults. We text each other our masterpieces each night before I go to bed. I share them with my husband, who is not impressed.

    When we were kids, we played Little League baseball on the same team. My brother boasted that he hit a home run. I boasted that I played short stop and third base. I quit the team that year when a fast pitch landed in my eye socket. I think my brother respected my black eye and would have worn it as a badge of pre-teen toughness had he earned it himself.

    A year apart we are more like twins than ordinary sibs, right down to the telling looks and the knowing nods. We understand each other's nonsensical ramblings, and the heart stuff that has no words. Inspite of this, we have been strangers most of our lives. I imagine us walking in tandem on the same road, and yet ending up at different destinations. Sometimes I am aware of his presence, sometimes not. Now, at the end of our thirties, we have nothing in common. Except our nightly competition. And a birth mother.
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