It often looks silly and shows up late at night. I hear the belly laughs below my feet as I shuffle around picking up the stray sock and clicking off lights. I’m forced to holler down the stairs, “If I have to come down there one more time . . .” even though I’m secretly thankful they find one another so delightfully funny.
There is affection but it is coarse and aggressive: wrestling or poking or tripping.
When Middle wants Big’s attention, he need only offer a sucker punch to the gut to receive a dead arm which leaves them both in stitches—the laughing kind.
They don’t use flowery words but you should see how Little’s chest expands when Middle and Big talk to other kids about how tough he is.
You can see it, though it isn’t mentioned—the adoration in Middle’s eyes when he watches Big play basketball.
I can tell, though he’d never admit it, Big feels better when Middle is around.
Every laughing fest over a painfully ridiculous joke or inappropriate table manner leaves me rolling my eyes but somehow serves to secure their brother-bond.
I’m a word person, but I have grown to read between the actions of these young men who call me Mom. Though they have never told each other “I love you, bro,” I can see it: fierce, loyal, deep, loud and strong.
In the case of these brothers, and dare I say *most* brothers: actions do speak louder.
This article originally appeared on Frankly, Sara
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