I occupy the caboose in a large family. I am the tail gunner I suppose. I have five older brothers and sisters. And in what might be considered a marriage between the Bunch of Brady and the Family of Manson, Mom and Dad had an even distribution of boys and girls (although two of my sisters are rather diminutive so in terms of total size they equal but one person).
I have been fortunate my entire life that the sibling at the front of the train - my oldest brother Bill - has taken it upon himself to keep an eye (regardless of geographic remoteness) on me and for reasons never clear to me, has always seemed to have more faith in my ability to do things than I have ever possessed. Mine is not to reason why I suppose.
On Sunday, while trying to recuperate a bit from the pure unadulterated joy of a total knee replacement five or six days earlier (having defended personal injury matters for the past decade and a half I have heard countless stories as to the TKR as the single-most painful orthopedic surgery one can endure) Bill, channeling his inner Yoda (him being Yoda enables me to be Obi-Wan for purposes of this hypothetical, which is important because I could not be Anakin Skywalker for my over sized head would not fit inside Vader's sleek black helmet) sensed a disturbance in the force around the snow globe and reached out to lend a hand to his youngest brother.
And not being an idiot, I listened to what he told me during our chat and I have not only taken the advice to heart, I have formulated an action plan that consists of something more concrete than crying into my beer. I know not how this little episode of my so-called life shall play out but for the first time in a few months I feel as if I am actively doing something - as opposed to standing on the sidewalk and watching the parade pass me by.
Brother, where art thou? Sometimes, as close as the other end of the phone.