The family is getting ready to go somewhere.  Mom has a job getting five young kids all moving in the same direction.

My brother, Craig, is sitting on the porch looking at the ground holding his head in his hands.  He can’t walk down the step.  He won’t try.  He knows he will fall.  He is not drunk, but if you didn’t know him, you might think he was.

I am eight, he is five.  He and his twin brother were born with brain damage that caused epilepsy that is only somewhat controlled.  Their mediations were constantly being adjusted—too little means more seizures, too much and they can’t trust their legs.  Craig’s has just been increased and his body hasn’t adjusted.

Mom is anxious for us to get in the car.  I sit down next to Craig at the top of the steps and we go “bump-bump” scooting on our bottoms down the steps.  Hanging on to each other, we cross the driveway and get into our seats.

“My brother, Craig, is sitting on the porch looking at the ground holding his head in his hands.”

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