I always wanted a sister or a brother or both or somebody.
I never liked being an only child.
My mother used to tell me that I was enough. But I knew I wasn’t. Her sister had six kids. She had just me. She wanted babies and I wanted siblings. There were times we both thought we would get our dream. But it didn’t happen.
I had Rosemary and I told myself, this is the same. She and I did everything together. From third grade through sixth, we were inseparable. We saw each other at school. We played together after school. We slept over at each other’s houses. We went to the movies, the library, Whitey’s Bakery, Rexall Drug. We climbed Bunker Hill Monument together. We sang “Tammy” at Symphony Hall. We talked every day on the phone. We told each other everything.
I thought it would always be this way. Together forever. We were “blood brothers,” our fingers touching and mingling a pinprick of blood on a hot summer day. This invisible bond would connect us always. Wasn’t this the same as real brothers?
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