The house was small, one of those mid-century two beds with a low roof and lumpy lawn,

but as kids, we never thought of it as cramped.

It had just enough hallway to race through, just enough corners to hide behind.

We knew which kitchen floorboard squeaked when you stepped on it.

The hallway had this one sharp corner where backpacks always scraped the paint.

Every September my mum would repaint it like clockwork and every year we wore it down again

by Christmas.

We had this ugly green and gold carpet in the living room.

My brother once swore he saw a face in it and then convinced me it changed expressions.

That was the kind of kid he was.

Magnetic in the way that kids only are before the world starts sanding them down.

He was two years younger than me, and twice as brave.

He could climb anything, say anything, befriend anyone.

Adults loved him, because he was funny without trying to be.

He made up rules for every game.

Sometimes they were fun, like, you couldn't step on the third floorboard in the hallway because that was lava.

But some didn't make sense.

Like if you touched the wall after dinner, you were it until someone blinked twice. With him, hide and seek had its own law.

Our parents leaned into the chaos in the best way.

Dad was a big guy who would chase us around the house, growling like a bear,

capturing us in an inescapable but gentle hug.

Mom was the planner, clipboard type, always humming some old song and slipping snacks into every bag we owned.

...