So, it’s Sunday (or it was… I’m up late- again!) and I sing in the choir on Sundays. It’s not a very “young professional liberal environmentalist” thing to do I guess, but I don’t care. I like it. I like being a part of the music. I even like the choir robes. We sang a nice happy number called “People Look East” and I enjoyed the heck out of it.

After church, an older portly black man in a hat was standing outside alone in the sun. I smiled at him, we complimented each others hats, and we started to talk. I’m not sure exactly how to describe it but we had a “heart connection”. He started talking to me about his experiences in the Vietnam war after I told him about my scarf (from my brother, from his tour in Afghanistan). He shared some stories with me, and how he had felt during the war, how it felt walking across deep rivers and over mountain ranges, how important his buddy was to him, how it felt to come home and be in the rhythm of raising kids and going to work, how he felt standing at the memorial, how the military made him feel disposable, and he told me to keep talking with my brother. That as his sister, I would love him no matter what he did, no matter what happened. I said, of course, that is true. Wives are different, he said. Wives, they get mad at you if you don’t take out the trash. I laughed. I was a wife once myself…

There’s more to the story than that, but you get the idea. He told me it was important for my brother to know I was always on his side. I had tears in my eyes when I gave him a long hug and he kissed me on the cheek. We found his wife and I gave her a long hug too.

It was an incredible moment. After we parted ways, I went for a walk along a creek with a friend and did some drawing.

And, yes. I called my brother.