There are memories I have with my brother and there are memories I was given, although like most of us I’m probably jumbling up the two and inventing whatever is missing. What I definitely remember: we’re five or six, playing a fun game in our basement where one of us bounces on the trampoline while the other throws things directly at the jumper, whose job it is to not get hit. Like any good pair of brothers, the game starts off easy and then escalates quickly. Stuffed animals turn to sharp objects and before I know it I’m upstairs, tugging at my mom who has just sat down to talk on the phone with a friend, explaining through the blood pouring out of my face how I lost the game.
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