My brother Sam
When I was eleven Raymond gave me a copy of James Collier’s novel My Brother Sam Is Dead.
My mother took one look at the title and demanded that I immediately take the book back from whence it came from, my reluctance to do so was met with a stern reproach; “Is your brother Sam dead?” my perplexed mother asked. Years later she explained that she wasn’t being superstitious she just didn’t want the book around with Sam there, “I want you people to get along” she explained.
I haven’t spoken to my brother in almost half a decade and this worries my mom, so I tell her we’re friends on Facebook but that’s little comfort to her.
Sometimes I wonder if there’re other anomalies like us out there.
Sam and I never had a big fall out, or suddenly realize that we weren’t of the same parents. The truth is Sam and I never really know/knew each other and we’ve never tried. Most of the things I know about him were told to me by other family members. 
I don’t think we’ve actually ever had a real conversation before… and we’re siblings.
Sam was almost eleven years old when I came around and was gone months after my eleventh birthday; of the years that he was around, he was either away at school, evangelizing or trying to parent me.
The only memories I have are of him walking me to school, and being in a play about the slave trade that he had written for my school. And one Christmas, a long time ago he had a party for the children that lived in my grandmother’s neighbourhood.
Last Sunday my mom asked me what Sam had ever done to me; I thought about it for a few seconds and said earnestly for the first time, “Nothing, I just don’t know the guy”
This made my mom weep, like she had failed us.
I told her she should have allowed me to keep the book, Sam and I maybe would have started a conversation over it.
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