My youngest brother was born when I was a mature six years old and I took care of him along with our mom. He was my "first child" in many ways. He was sickly as an infant and toddler and I enjoyed caring for and comforting him. As he grew up, he grew out of his poor health and had a normal childhood. Tragically, he was killed at the age of twenty-seven. That was almost twenty years ago and the pain and grief of losing him are brought back by the simplest of things that remind me of him.