Three Brothers

THREE YEARS ago last Christmas, I climbed the rancid staircase of a flophouse on skid row. My motives included a degree of love, but maybe more of duty and obligation. I came to wish my brother Merry Christmas. He was in bed, huddled on a matted mattress. He gave me a feeble, awkward smile--he always seemed afraid of me. I spent ten minutes with him in a halfhearted attempt to help. But I couldn't get away fast enough. I wanted to make him feel wanted and accepted, but not in a way that would involve me too much.