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My middle brother, with whom I have a difficult past, shared an evening with me last night, the first time he'd visited me at my home in decades (because I usually see him in our home state). Warmed and emboldened by some bourbon, I began to ask about his memories of our old neighborhood, and the wild -- really, quite feral -- upbringing we had in the woods of Kentucky.

We approached the topic tentatively, as we do most discussions of the past, having shared so much beauty and horror both, yet interpreting them differently, sometimes in baffling and hurtful ways. We reminded each other of neighbors long forgotten, as well as injuries both physical and psychic, along with memories of the magical acres we explored -- free to wander at ages 5 and 6 and 7! -- in the caves and gulleys and woods and bottomlands.

I suppose the liquor "unarmed" me -- and my question unarmed him -- but this time we approached the topic with curiosity and kindness, maybe a benefit of having reached our fifth decade together? I was well pleased that old ammunition of "this is my truth" had faded and we simply existed in each other's wisdom, acknowledging that both warp and weth create the fabric of life.

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Oh I'm so happy for you that you have a brother. I have three. I can relate to this conversation so much. My brothers and I have had many around campfires. It is my belief that brothers and sisters can write rewrite the past (and their futures) with a fierce and fearless tenderness none can match.

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I have three (all a year apart).

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What beautiful joy you shared here.

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Ah yes the wisdom and suppleness of aging in and by grace.

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What a gift.

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So beautiful, heartwarming and hopeful

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that old ammunition of "this is my truth" - I love this!

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