I remember playing Star Wars with Evan, our imaginary light sabers whooshing through the air, slashing Storm Trooper after Storm Trooper on our way to Darth Vader, always pausing to repeat, “Help me Obi Wan Kenobi; you’re my only hope.”

I remember sliding down the stairs in our sleeping bag, trying to fit two-in-one so that we could go together, hoping that we wouldn’t get caught, while our screams and laughs would weave together and follow us as we bounced stair by stair.

I remember building forts out of blankets and couch cushions and crawling through them with our flashlights like we were exploring unknown caves or snuggling in to read a book or tell our secrets inside something that was us-sized.

But mostly, I remember playing with my brother hour after hour, day after day.  Whether it was climbing the trees and convincing each other to jump off or trying to defeat Bowser in a marathon of Super Mario Brothers, the two of us were in it together in a galaxy far, far away or in trouble in our own backyard.


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