Today is the 23rd of December. Fifty-two years ago, my brother was born. Two sons of an Air Force staff sergeant, we spent fifteen years following him around on the periphery of the American empire. We lived during the 20th century’s cold war, which meant setting off like the narrator in Heart of Darkness for Honchu, Japan, Chicksands, England, or Terceira, in the Azores archipelago. No need for the details. Just picture two nine-year olds with buzzcuts in 1971 playing GI Joe.

Brothers are meant to be cherished, right? I mean after you get past the Cain and Abel teenage years, past the “I don’t know you” twenties, you begin to see how alike you both are. You start to exchange places with one another. Or one of you does and to your surprise it isn’t you. You see each other for Christmas, your children are born, your brother buys a Harley and begins to visit more and more often. Sometimes he arrives unannounced during the summer, which is perfectly fine since your sons love him and his bike. He knows this and feels as if it’s one of the few areas of his life where he can be vulnerable. You overhear him tell them how much he loves them. He’ll occasionally feel embarrassed though when you come downstairs and find him smiling. He was laughing with your sons, which sends you back to the times you spent together, joined together against your father. You wish there had been more of those moments. You wish the two of you had been able to gang up together and shout — “What the fuck is up with you?” Or “You definitely have to get your shit together, man!” like you once heard a young African-American enlisted guy say to the dense Portuguese cashier at the BX. But you didn’t and those moments are not coming back.

Your father is nearly 80. He lives with his second wife in the Midwest, in a red state that used to be blue. The last time you both saw him together was thirty years ago after he split with your mother. That was when your brother, after learning of it, took his .22 out to the backyard. One round then another then another and soon there was nothing left of your favorite maple tree. It freaked you out when he told you about it years later. You were self-righteous — I would never do that, I mean, take out a gun and shoot a fucking tree? No way. What would the neighbors think? Worse, what if Dad came home and found you out back with his gun? “What can I say, anger is a motherfucker,” that’s what he said.

This Christmas he’s across the ocean and I’m here with my boys, all of us brothers. I look at my sons, they’re smiling at each other, which for some reason pisses me off. Looking for a pretext, I see that the youngest is slouching. “Sit up,” I say. Regrets arrive immediately first felt in my stomach and then they move to unlock my clenched fist. The youngest puts his head on the table and looks at me. Next he looks over at his brother and they smile. I can almost hear them say together: “What the fuck is up with Dad?”