Brothers

How long would it be before Glen admitted the money was gone? He left the store with five hundred dollars in an envelope. He somehow lost the envelope between the store and the bank. The bank was only four blocks away so the search area was limited. I found him searching frantically up and down Harris Street. Around here a half-eaten moldy bologna sandwich wouldn’t last more than a few seconds unattended. A fistful of twenties didn’t have a chance of recovery. I lost my temper and asked how he could be so stupid. After all, five hundred dollars was a great deal of money for a small operation like ours. As usual Glen got very upset and cried, I felt terrible for yelling at him.
Glen is a gentle soul, me not so much. He was always artistic, he could paint, sculpt, play classical guitar, and do anything else that took talent and imagination. He is also my little brother. The only thing we have in common is our looks. I’m not nearly as talented as Glen, somedays I envy him somedays, like today, I don’t. The whole family is artistic and refined except for yours truly. Our home was filled with classical music, classic literature, and intelligent conversation. It drove our parents nuts that I preferred Rancid to Beethoven, and The Dropkick Murphys to Mozart. My father jokes sometimes that while the family could trace their ancestry to the likes of Joyce, Yeats, and Shaw, mine could probably be traced to Kurt the mailman. My mother doesn’t find that at all amusing.
I put my arm around Glen’s shoulder and tell him it’s only money. We make our way back to the shop all smiles. Losing five hundred dollars isn’t going to stop me from loving my brother.