My brother is five years ahead of me. My more vivid memories of him start when he is much older—eleven or twelve at least, which splotches of his smiles and silly games with his baby sister poking through a mostly sullen, almost teenage existence. He is named after Christopher Robin, who is my mother’s favorite character from A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh stories, and in baby pictures he is dressed in tweeds and sandals with socks.
As a little boy his hair was golden and his eyes were wide and perfect. Sometimes when I see him nap, I can see the baby Christopher I never knew, curled up and sleeping behind long lashes.