I remember the first time you held my hand. Well, my finger. Through the crooked bars of the hand-me-down crib. Laying your little head where I used to lay my neurotic one. I taunted you, pulling my hand in and out of the bars, watching your wide brown eyes chase it. Then, eventually, you’d reach out and grab at me with uncoordinated snatches. Your tiny fingernails attempting to dig themselves into my skin and your grip seizing my movements. I’d smile up at you and try to find you some words in my limited vocabulary. “Little brother,” I would babble out, “Mikey.” Maybe it was just me, but I swore I could feel your grip melt into a gesture of brotherhood, a gesture of love.