Olive Garden, Easter Sunday afternoon. My 82 year old grandma is taking the family out to lunch. The family is in the lobby waiting to be seated. My brother is tall and thin like a bean pole, the name everybody calls him. His scraggly dirty blond hair hangs loosely around his shoulders. He is in his usual all black garb, which is a long sleeve hoodie that has been worn past it due date. The edging around the cuffing has torn and frayed and there are holes everywhere. Neither he nor his clothes have been washed in months. Instead of getting new pants, he adds another patch to the collage. This time the tear is in the center of his pants, the crotch.
With his legs spread wide open, sitting on the bench in the lobby; with a red piece of leather in one hand and sewing needle threaded with dental floss in the other, my bother begins to sew. Being completely mortified by my brother, I burst out “What are you doing? “ Com’ on Jeannine, everybody has a crotch. Don’t you have a crotch.? He says. He is undisturbed by what he is doing, not caring what anyone else thinks. It's Easter Sunday and I can not believe he is my twin.