In which there’s a phone call

My little brother Graham is the only immediate family in my time zone. Granted he lives 1,223 miles away on a Marine base in southern California, but at least I can pick up the phone at 9pm PST and he’ll be awake to chat.

The last time the four of us were together - at grandmom's 90th birthday in Nashville.

The last time the four of us were together – at grandmom’s 90th birthday in Nashville.

If you’ve met my brother, you’ll know he’s a total goofball. I’m a better pediatric dentist because through him I know all about the Power Rangers, Transformers, Iron Man, the Hulk, Captain America and the rest of the Justice League, Batman, Spiderman and his ultimate favorite, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (seriously, he has a tattoo of them). He likes to call me when he passes the Navy Dental unit to tell me how he’s not getting his teeth cleaned. And for some reason I always end up calling him during his weekly Taco Tuesday dinners on accident. We discuss Shark Week at length. On our calls he is constantly giving me grief by pretending I’m a dental assistant, not a dentist (“oh stop, you just hand people things, right?”). I tell him he’s an idiot; he tells me he hates my bangs. I love all our talks.

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The hardest call to make though every time is right before he deploys for Afghanistan, like the one we had this morning.

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Graham with his service dog Chopper

Love you little brother. I know you don’t read this blog, because your hate for blogs is on par with your hatred for bangs. You and Chopper take care of each other and stay safe. I’ll miss getting to call you whenever I want.

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