To my brother Ralf, on his birthday

Ralf,

I want to take a moment and tell you how inexplicably gratifying it is to see you having not only survived, but really carved a place of your own in this world.

I remember the very first day moms brought you home from the baby store. I was excited because they told me they were bringing home a baby, and both my fish, sunny and goldie had died the week before as a tragic result of their strict training regimen. I assumed (correctly, as it turns out) that a baby would be much more hardy and able to withstand a rigorous training schedule as we mastered a variety of showtricks to unveil before the unsuspecting world.

I’m sorry for all the biting. In those first several months, I was still honing my ability to show you how much I loved you, and the only way I could think of properly expressing it was with a good chomp to the most available expanse of pink. Aren’t you glad, then, that I was able to whet my proficiencies at emotional and psychological torment? All the work that went into creating your very own twilight zone universe of alternate realities—elaborate practical jokes lasting weeks, months, culminating in a collapse of tears and the faked deaths of Ruff, Mr. Teddy Bear, Dorothy, Santa, you?


And now, here you are, all these years later, with nary a physical or psychological scar on you to show for all that love and attention.

Happy Birthday, and stop twitching.

Love,
Me