For Michael - Happy Heavenly Birthday

I was nine and a half years old when my baby brother came barreling into my life — though “barreling” might be generous, because in late summer of 1969, when Momma and Daddy told Craig and me we were getting a new brother or sister, I was not thrilled. Not even a little. We had finally moved into a house where Craig and I each had our own bedrooms, our own space, our own little kingdoms. And now here came this baby, threatening to upset the delicate balance of everything I held dear.

But then Christmas rolled around, and Momma let me feel the baby kick for the first time. Something shifted in me. Suddenly this wasn’t just “the baby.” This was a tiny person doing somersaults under Momma’s skin, and I was enchanted. And convinced — absolutely convinced — that I was getting a baby sister out of the deal. I had already named her in my head. I was ready.

On February 12th, 1970, a family member showed up at school to pick Craig and me up early. When we got home, Daddy told us we had a new baby brother.

A brother.

Named Michael Anthony Fisher.

I was crushed. I didn’t even care to meet him that day. I had been promised a sister by the universe, and the universe had failed spectacularly.

But then I saw him.

And just like that, disappointment didn’t stand a chance. I fell head over heels for that baby boy. I bottle‑fed him. I changed his cloth diapers — which should qualify me for some kind of medal. I carried him around the house like he was my own personal responsibility. I couldn’t get enough of him.

For years, we joked about how I never got over not getting my baby sister. And Michael, with that dry wit of his, would always say, “Ray, you already filled the role of princess in the family. There wasn’t room for another one.” He wasn’t wrong.

Today, I celebrate his legacy — the boy I adored, the man he became, the brother who made my life bigger, softer, and funnier.

He died on October 8th, 2020 from liver cancer. I miss him every day. And as much as it aches, I can’t help but feel a little jealous that he got to see Momma and Daddy before I did. I imagine the reunion was something beautiful.

Until it’s my turn, I carry him with me — in memory, in laughter, in the stories that still make me smile. My brother. My almost‑baby‑sister. My Michael.