Email To My Brother: Blue

I've heard those stories of me being a crybaby as an infant.
     And they're probably true.
     You have to blame our oldest sister for that. As an baby, she got me used to being rocked to sleep on a pillow on her lap. The way she got her husband used to it after they were married.
     “It was either that,” she once told me, “or have sex with him. I didn’t do it four times, and look what happened. We had four kids.”
     “Why didn’t you do it those four times?” I asked her.
     “He took off his shoes and I passed out from the smell,” she said. “It was a trick he learned from Bill Cosby.”
     I remember talking with our beloved late mother once, asking her about how difficult it was for her to take care of the many kids she had, and she said you were the easiest to take care of.
     “He was?” I said, surprised.
     “He was,” she assured me. “His head was so big as a baby, your father would wedge it between two blades of the ceiling fan, turn the fan on, and your older brother would be entertained for hours.”
     “How would you know it was time to bring him down?” I asked her.
     “When he turned blue,” she said.
 
 

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