To explain my brother and my love for him is like trying to lasso the sun — or the moon. If only love could be made visible, then the world might see me like Mary Hatch when George describes her swallowing the moon; this love for my brother is shooting out my fingers and toes and the ends of my hair, illuminating every part of my life.
If we must use the word function, let it come down to me. For what other function do I have but to love my brother and to tell about it?
Read the entirety of Kathryn O'Callaghan's heartwarming essay here.
