When I was eight, I watched my eldest brother graduate from high school. As I peered around the forest of tree trunk legs to catch a glimpse of the royal blue gown swishing around his ankles, he grew in my eyes. Now, my relatives exclaimed, he was an adult, but I could not understand what made him this way because he had always seemed grown to me. When I was 12, I watched my other brother stride across a stage at his high school, though this time I was tall enough to admire more than just his ankles. I saw the boy who held my hand to cross a fallen tree, who covered my innocent ears when his friends would let filthy words slip, the boy who let me win at Pokemon even though I only picked the “pretty” ones. A piece of paper and a handshake made
