The knock was barely audible against my room door.
My brother came in, took his favorite spot on the edge of my bed.
I turned momentarily away from stalking my ex’s Facebook profile, “Are you going to bed? Do you want me to tuck you in?”
He shook his head. Yet his eyes were imploring, hesitant. Guilty?
“What’s wrong? Is something bothering you?”
Alarm bells go off in my head, in fear that someone had hurt him, broke his heart; the protective side of me rearing into defense against any bully or long-legged bitch.
Again he shook his head, forcefully this time, “Cece, can you make me supper?”
I smiled, relieved. No need for blood on my hands tonight.
It’s one in the morning as I sit and watch my brother find joy in a simple sandwich, lips and fingers greasy from all that butter.
I sit and watch; partly in simple sibling affection, mostly in metabolism envy.
“Cece?” Those same eyes asked, “Can you tuck me in?”