At age three, I cut my head open
as my brother and I played tag with the neighbors
and I ran into a pillar.
A river of red rushed down the side of my face,
and I was rushed to the hospital to stop the stream of blood.

At age seven, Thomas knocked a tooth out of my jaw
after he  threw a baseball bat at my face.
No, not a sleek, stainless steel bat,
but the dented and yellow plastic toy was thrown hard enough
to remove a baby tooth.

At age nine,  Thomas
chased me with my grandma’s splintering cane
and locked me inside a cramped bathroom.

For half an hour.

At age eleven, as we wrestled in my room,
a thin golden curtain rod magically appeared in his hands,
and I found myself dangling on his back with my hands clutching
his shoulders, dangerously close to his throat.
In a split second, I flew across the room,
and Thomas fell on his back, as shards of glass
from the overheard light scattered across the floor.

But in between all of the fighting, bruises, blood, and broken objects,
we manage to get along.
And on certain days, I like him.
When he moves away to college next year,
I suppose I’ll miss him, and maybe,
he’ll miss me, too.
Because even though we’d never admit it,
deep, deep down,
we might care for each other.