My dearest Samuel,

I was going to write you a letter about how we’d grown old together; 21 years! We could legally have a drink.

But as I sat down to write this, I realized that I no longer think of you as just a brother.

When we met, I was 35, you 21. A generation apart, but close enough that we could have overlapped social circles, maybe come to recognize each other by name. Shake hands. Hug.

But on this date 21 years ago, you stopped aging. I stagger on: 55 now and still a scientific marvel. My body tumbles now and again, but you haven’t missed a beat. Our antigens must have fit like corner jigsaw pieces; even doctors shake their heads at our endurance.

And as we march onward, I see our roles differently. I see you now as a young recruit drafted unwillingly into the Great Gurney War. I see myself as a jaded sergeant who enlisted because he could see no other future. And when you fell, I affixed your bayonet to my rifle.

So now I wear your kidney and pancreas like dog tags, and keep them not around my neck, but deep within, just around my left rib cage. I plan to lay them as high atop Antigen Hill and my legs will carry.

I don’t know the people who were blessed by your heart, or lungs, or liver. But I do know that no one guards you more fiercely than I. For all the threats that have surrounded us — viruses, infections, maskless and careless idiots — we have held the bunker. For more than two decades!

I know men about my age who have sons about your age. My oldest friend was born a week from me. His youngest son is about to turn 21.

I could be that man.

You could be that boy.

Samuel, my boy.

I’m not going to lie; snipers still abound. COVID looms like a shroud, gray as uncertainty.

The cavalry is on the way, we’re told, but we must patrol this front on our own until support gets here.

So I’ve got a plan. I adopted a dog you’d love, a happy and huge chocolate Labrador named J.D.

You create a distraction by feeding her slowly (she’ll bark her head off at that, but don’t worry; she’s all love and newness).

While she’s yapping, I’ll charge the front.

Cover me.