Each Christmas morning, my oldest brother Mark made an announcement: he was saving a gift to open at night. I sighed, confident my exhale would be hidden under the crumpling of wrapping paper. He was the oldest and I was the youngest — 15 years between us. He was practically built of stone, a fullback in American football; a position that required wide shoulders, a ramming helmet, and churning knees. I wasn't about to say a word.
Mark's decree bypassed our other siblings and landed squarely on me. Perhaps they, residing in the middle, had built up some nerve, but I was convinced through either guilt or fear to follow the eldest's lead. (He was a gentle giant with me; a protector. But still.) He set aside one gift, and I did the same, angling for some rectangular box that housed a sweater or trousers. I was careful to never choose anything in the shape of a book, or a game, or a basketball.
