I can’t style my hair the way he does nor ride the bike like
him neither can I get a kiss from my dad like he does.
But mom loves my
dishevelled hair, abrasive walk and toothless smile because we both are hers
alike.
He gets angry and throws things at me and says words like ‘mad’ ‘mental’
‘curse’, none of which I understand.
Mom cries a lot, but don’t worry mom, one
day when he scratches me he will also get some Dettol to dab my wound like I
kiss his forehead when he is deep asleep.
I love my small brother in ways that
are different than how other boys love their small brothers; it is love
nevertheless.
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