I remember his smell
Of Johnson's Baby Oil.
Warm, weird, kinda heavy.
His skin shiny,
Cheeks like tomatoes.

I remember the black sandals
He always wore,
Whether we shot hoops
Followed by an order of pizza,
Or raced our mountain bikes
Through the park.

I remember the songs
He listened to.
Rock, Pop, and more Rock.
Somehow, those are the same ones
I listen to now.

I remember his sense of humor.
Sometimes gut busting,
As he made faces
And mocked people.
Sometimes disgusting,
As he blew his fart
From his hand to my face:
A kiss that kills.

I remember when he left,
He left that oil smell
In his room, now mine.
The smell is long gone.
I remember him as my cousin.
I remember him as my babysitter.
I realize he had really been
My big brother.