I don't care about the words my baby brother speaks, cause they all sound like singing to me.

I remember well how you flavored our world with drops of butterscotch possibility. I was eight, after all, when you came into being. One day there is a belly and one day there is a baby and to this eight year old elder, holding mini you felt the same in my arms as you did through my momma's belly. Only puffier and redder and a bit more fragile than I had imagined.

I held you like an ice castle that might melt. I looked at you as if through a microscope. Though I was cautious - even reluctant - of your human frame, clutching it near my body felt as natural as the day I was born.

The day you were born.

And today, when you are visiting me on your college spring break - in sunny California all the way from snowy Michigan - when you say brilliant artistic intellect religious scholar type things, I don't listen to the words. I don't use my ears at all. I just hold out my arms and feel you. Recognize that golden treasure/blue sea place they are coming from. Because I have the same place in me.

We come from the same place. And those words sound like singing to me.

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