I started writing this post in July, so the dates are a little off. My brother's birthday is June 10th.

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My brother's birthday was last month, and I always stress over which card to get him. Inevitably, I pick the funny one because it's easier to say something to him on a laugh. We've been through a lot of difficult years together…and today we are each other's main link back to Mom. No one understands what her being gone feels like to me—no one except Charlie.

There is absolutely no one in my life as close to my heart as my little brother…but I've never told him. I know that he feels the same way about me…but he's never told me.

On the surface, this admission of closeness might surprise a lot of people: we don't talk often. We see each other only a few times a year. The only line of communication we maintain somewhat regularly is the occasional text message.

I was watching a movie years ago, and one of the characters said something that has continued to ricochet in my mind all this time. The thought was so simple, real, and…somehow…relevant to my relationships.

Rather, it was relevant to one of my relationships.

"Sometimes we love people so much that we have to be numb to it. Because if we actually felt how much we love them, it would kill us."

The relevancy was a curious thought. I've never considered myself numb to anything—actually, the opposite is usually true, and I feel too much. I've learned over the years to process most of this internally before reacting—giving the appearance of numbness, I suppose.

But actually numb? Nah.

Yet, there was a personal truth there.

I was very close to my brother when we were young. We were best friends before the problems started. I was eight. His temper was violent and completely uncontrollable by the adults. The situation made me grow up very early in life. I was dealing with mature struggles, automatically accepting that I needed to defend and protect the little monster who tormented my family…because somewhere inside that monster was my brother.

It didn't matter that the doctors said there was a reason for the outbursts. Reasons rarely matter in the moment. I learned the art of walking on egg shells and tried to make myself invisible. I blamed him for a long time for stealing my childhood from me, never allowing myself to imagine what life looked like from his shoes.

I wasn't only protecting him; I was protecting me.

When he turned 18, he began distancing himself. He became aloof and taciturn, a stranger who wanted nothing to do with his family. At the time, I was very angry with my brother. He had broken my heart countless times, but we all stuck around. Now he was turning his back on us. I returned the behavior in kind. He wouldn't even look at me the last time I saw him before moving to North Carolina. He was sealing himself off from everything that had ever caused him to feel.

It occurred to me while I was away that he wasn't only protecting himself; he was protecting us.

The reason we always got the brunt of his temper was because he loved us, he felt safe to let it out with us, and he knew at the end of the day that we would still love him. And also at the end of the day, he hated himself for hurting us. The farther away we were from him, the less likely that we would be around when all of those bottled emotions became too big to contain.

In adulthood, he has full control over his reactions—a hard-won battle, I am sure. I am proud of him—there isn't a word in the dictionary that adequately expresses how much I celebrate his accomplishment. He grew to be such a good and decent man…unfailingly kind.

…and I get to be his sister.

I remember being bickering children and Mom telling us that one day we would be each other's best friend. I didn't believe it. I remember thinking that it was one of those canned phrases that parents say to their kids when they are sick of saying everything else.

I was wrong

Try to find that on a birthday card.

I know today is supposed to be Sophie Sunday…but I am too wrapped up in all of the media footage today, footage from 10 years ago. My heart is too heavy to write about her antics today.

I know the air is flooded with recollections of where people were when they heard the news that America was under attack. I won't go into that…I went into that a few years ago. I have read some jaded comments about the influx of reflective conversations: it's really such a shame that empathy is a lacking trait in our population. This is an important part of healing: remembering how much something hurt, still hurts…and remembering how you found the courage to live your life.

People need to talk: let them.

9/11 took part of our innocence away forever. I remember being glued to the television trying to tell myself that this wasn't real…this wasn't happening…because this couldn't possibly happen. I was watching live footage when the second plane hit. Until I saw the shadow of that plane coming from the right of the screen, I believed I was watching a horrific accident. Even after the second plane hit, I remember someone on the news saying, "I wonder if they are having air traffic control problems." The chills still assault me when I think of the moment of realization that air traffic control had nothing to do with it and the overwhelming feeling of impermanence.

Seeing the images from that awful day again, I am just as stunned as I was then. 9/11 meant something to all of us, but I had my loved ones to lean on. My heart goes out to the people who mourned on a private level first. I can't imagine the loneliness in the midst of that mess. Several months later, our president said in a speech, "Every one of the innocents who died on September 11 was the most important person on Earth to somebody. Every death extinguished a world." I hope that this day does not give them too much pain.