I have been single for 13 years. When I crawl into bed at night, I crawl in alone. Of course, one of my dogs sleeps at the foot of the bed and the other sleeps on the floor, too old to climb up. I have a Queen-sized bed, and I have to admit, I enjoy the extra room. No fighting for covers. No being awoken by snoring. No stinky-breath kisses in the morning. That’s the way it goes.

Thirty seven years have passed since my older brother Tony was killed in a motorcycle wreck. I’ve heard that a person’s grief is defined by how much they loved the person. I still think about my brother every single day, and although I don’t cry any more on his birthday, May 1, or on the day he died, May 3, sometimes my grief returns without notice.

Recently, I was cleaning my art room and came across my and Tony’s baby books. Since our mother left when I was six months old and Tony was three, the “books” are only a few pages. I had looked through mine before, but to my surprise, I had no memory of ever looking through Tony’s.

I stopped organizing for a few moments to peruse Tony’s baby book. In my mother’s perfect block printing, I read about his milestones: pushing himself up on his chest, rolling over, fake coughing. There was his first word, “Uh-oh,” crawling, somehow getting a stick of butter and eating half of it. There was his first birthday, and his second, and the birth of his baby sister. Hey! That’s me.

What I read next moved me to tears and messed with my head for days afterward. It also explained why, after almost four decades, I still mourn his loss. My mother wrote, “Little Tony loves his new baby sister, almost too much. He insists on sleeping in her crib with her.” If that isn’t the definition of precious, I don’t know what is.

My brother Tony and I shared a bed for the first several years of my life. It was out of necessity I always thought. Being a single parent and running a business, my father had to watch every dime. When I told people my brother and I shared a bed, I often said it’s because we were broke. Our mattress, which lay on the floor, was a hand-me-down from our grandmother, and it was damaged. One of my uncles jumped on the bed and squashed the mattress in the middle.

Sharing a bed with my brother until I was about seven made it difficult for me, for years, to sleep alone. Even my younger brother, who was seven years younger than me, slept in my bed sometimes. Perhaps it’s why I always “needed” a boyfriend when I was in my 20s–just to have someone there. However, after two failed marriages and widowhood, I have learned to rely on myself.

Sometimes I wonder if I am looking for the unconditional love I could only get from my brother, which has far not worked out. Tony never judged me. And two days before he died, he told me that he loved me, that I was the most important woman in his life. Surprised and embarrassed by his openness, I looked at my tie-dyed Keds and mumbled “I love you too.”

My brother’s death taught me that we are never guaranteed another day. Another chance to say I love you. Another chance for a long lovely hug. We need to appreciate people while they are alive. That was a tough lesson for an 18 year old. But I am grateful for that lesson. Tony’s death forced me to grow up even if I thought I wasn’t ready to.

Every time I talk to my three kids, I finish with an “I love you.” They reciprocate. They know their mother. And every time I leave the house, I turn to my dogs and say “I love you.” They tilt their heads as if to ask “What, Momma?” I kiss them on the muzzle. Sacrifice reading or playing Best Fiends to give them pets when they place their paw on my arm. It’s not too much to ask, is it? To cherish what we have. There might not be another chance.

Good morning, readers and fellow writers. Happy New Year! On Sunday, December 31, at approximately 2:30 p.m.. I submitted my memoir My Brother, My Witness, Remembering Tony to a writing contest. This has been a twenty year project.

Writing about someone you love more than you love yourself is an enormous and complicated undertaking. Because my brother Tony was older than me, I worshipped the ground beneath his feet. He was far from perfect (like all of us) but it was difficult for me to view him as anything but godlike. This made it so hard for me to write about him as a three dimensional character.

Writing “in scene” helped me overcome my bias. Just the facts. ma’am. Imagine you’re in a movie. All of the advice from my astute and beyond amazing mentor, noted author Kim Barnes came into play. Plus, receiving honest feed back over the years from my loyal editor Kami Westhoff was integral. So many revisions.

I will keep you updated if I hear any news. Even if the book doesn’t win the contest, at least it’s abandoned for now. Able to be refined and submitted again. Now, it’s onto the next project. Woo-hoo.

My first memories include my older brother Tony and my father, also named Tony. The three of us lived in an apartment on Hazel Street on the west side of Binghamton, New York. My father and mother had split in April 1969, when I was four months old. At the time, my father was a cobbler’s apprentice at Ye Old Cobbler Shoppe, under the mentorship of his best friend Danny.

When Danny passed away in the early 70s, my father decided to open his own shoe repair and leather crafting business, The Leather Shoe Shop. By this time, I was two and Tony was four. We went to work with him every single day.

As a young girl, I followed every move my brother Tony made. I fist fought other boys alongside him, wore his hand me downs, and spit on the sidewalk. We walked around the apartment shirtless and slept in the same bed. Some of my father’s customers thought Tony and I were twin boys.

Until I was four, I never had a clue that Tony and I were different. But one day, on an incredibly hot August afternoon at the Ross Park Zoo, I came to new awareness. When I tried to take my shirt off, my father said, “Honey, you can’t do that.” I repeatedly asked “Why?” He repeatedly said, “You just can’t.” So, I pulled my shirt up and over my belly, stopping just below my chest.

Once Tony and I started school, I became friends with girls, but I always felt more comfortable among boys. Although not always true, it seemed that boys cared less than girls about gossip and fitting into the status quo. And, until fourth grade, when my father switched Tony and me from the public school system into Catholic schools, I had rarely worn dresses. It was a whole new experience.

Wearing girl clothes hardly wrung the tomboy out of me. I hung upside down from tree branches, much to the horror of my father’s new wife Vickie. She’d pull me off the limb and tell me to act “like a lady.” What did that mean? Now I know it meant, keeping my big mouth shut, wearing a slip beneath my skirt, and keeping myself clean. Vickie insisted Tony and I take regular baths, brush our teeth nightly, and wear pajamas to bed. I wore a nightgown and he wore long johns.

As I came of age, I observed Vickie go from being a doting stepmother to a woman who snapped into a fury over spilled milk, or forgetting to call her “Mom.” She smacked Tony and me around, and threatened us with worse if we told our father. When he was home, she smoothed our hair and laughed at our jokes. In private however, she was a monster.

Vickie’s erratic behavior may have taught me to distrust women. By the time I was in high school, I had fewer than five close girlfriends, and a slew of guy friends. I sat with football players during lunch and chewed tobacco with them at hockey games. Once, when I had one line in the school play, I stepped out onto the stage met by a roar from one corner of the auditorium: “Cindy!” It came from my flippant coterie of young men.

One of the pitfalls of being a tomboy is unsolicited jealousy and rage from girly girls. I’m an incurable flirt, and I have had many problems with the girlfriends and wives of my male friends. Secure women, with solid relationships, tend to let me be who I am. But to those who can’t handle it, I am forced into that ladylike role again–the one set forth by my stepmother.

And here I am today. Still that tomboy at heart but dressed as a girl. My hair is long and curly. I wear a little bit of makeup. And thanks to the three children I had, I have… ahem…curves. My flirtatious nature still intact, I am both loved and hated by different women. Some misconstrue my gregarious nature, and others believe it’s who I am.

Since I was a kid, my best friends have almost always been introverts. I want to be more like them–able to think before I speak, more thoughtful than talkative, able to find comfort in solitude. Conversely, I seem to draw them out of their shell. I make them laugh, encourage them to tell their stories, and find out what life means to them.

For many decades, I’ve tried to be more quiet. To listen more intently. To allow others to speak their truths. And while I have gotten better at that, the tomboy in me is still alive and well and living in Idaho. I can dress up, but I prefer a T-shirt, jeans, and Converse. I love a crowd, drinking beer, and quoting movies. Some of my best friends are guys, and yet, I do love the company of women. (Vickie’s been out of my life since 1998.)

We are all walking, talking contradictions. The thing is, you have to be comfortable with who you are. And most of the time, I am.