I Needed to Know Him

     As a child, I imagined having an older brother, someone who is exactly like the big brother shown on the television.  The commercial blared at me, capturing my attention; "Be a Big Brother," it advertised.  "Help mentor, tutor and guide our youth."  I envisioned having a big brother of my own, one who was so gorgeous that all my friends will stare and flirt with him while he changed the flat tire on my car.  I hoped my big brother would be masculine enough to beat up my loser boyfriends and protect me from the evils of the world.  I knew he existed.  I heard his name mentioned once.  I secretly asked my sister about him.  She wrote down my brother's full name, told me to look him up when I turned eighteen years of age, and in the meantime, never mention his name again.  The summer after my eighteenth birthday, I went searching for my big brother thinking that together he and I could live the life I so desperately wanted to live.  When I found him, my illusions shattered and my heart splintered.  I felt as if a thief broke into my soul, stole all my dreams, then stuffed them in a postage-paid envelope, and mailed my packaged future away without a return address.