My brother and I are talking on the phone, and I am laughing. He has called to ask me a Jeopardy! question, to see if I know the answer. (I don't.) "That's all I needed," he says, but neither of us say goodbye and half an hour later we are still chatting, moving easily from topic to topic. We're different in a lot of ways, in our interests and beliefs and approach. And yet we are made of the same stuff; we share the same genes and the same history. And so we are similar in fundamental ways. I'm reminded of this in the way the rhythm of his speech is like mine, and in the way our conversation jumps ahead, skipping unnecessary sentences because we're already on the same page, thinking the same thing. If we both live to be old, we will have known each other longer than anyone else in our lives.

Little did I realize, when I used to squeeze my little brother's wrist until he cried, that he would someday become one of my closest friends.