My brother made toast for my children this morning, checked they had their phys-ed clothes in their schoolbags, and made sure they had brushed their teeth.
It’s a joyous dialogue, this banter between generations, for several reasons: I am temporarily eased of morning rituals, the children hear a different adult voice (relaying much the same message) and I am comforted by commonalities of tone and innuendo marking our history as siblings.
And, most importantly, this is my brother who in March of this year collapsed with a heart attack. The paramedics could easily have stood back from his lifeless and cooling body, satisfied they had done everything possible, but they persisted, and so this morning my brother was able to make toast and help me get my sons off to school.
Rod Smith and sons 