Everything Isn't, Anymore.

"He's my baby brother" my mother lamented over the telephone.  I heard those words as I paced up and down, up and down, the hallway of my home while compulsively running my fingers through my hair. The conversation began with a benign "Hello" and was followed by "Your uncle has been in an accident."  During the re-telling of the events that had occurred the night before, there were abrupt pauses punctuated by broken syllables.  My mother, in her early seventies, is slight in stature with light blond hair and eyes the color of mine. I envisioned her nervously sitting in her sun room, balancing the phone on her right shoulder, magazines strewn carelessly about on the couch cushions next to her.   After the conversation haltingly concluded, her lament remained in my mind.  "He's my baby brother."  I have two brothers.  I am the youngest.  The only girl.  My relationship with them is full of complexities.  I accept this fact with little regard to change it.  Therefore, while digesting the traumatizing blow to the fragile ecosystem of our family, I simultaneously wondered at the fact that despite my mother's age, she remains the protector. The defender.  The one who takes care of her brother when he trips and falls or is bullied at school.  The one who sobs with him over his child's grave.  The one who anxiously awaits news of his condition.  I absorb the small pieces of this and resist the larger ones.  The ones that imply change.  The ones that imply uncertainty. And I realize that within one millisecond of an event, everything isn't, anymore.