In between when he was dating his ex-girlfriend and his wife, I had the utter joy of being my older brother’s best friend. I remember it that way anyway. Perhaps he had another who he thought of in that capacity, but for me, it was enough.

Mom’s morning glories were astonishing that year. Growing chaotically over an entire wall of the side porch. Bright and luscious, even the green leaves in between the incredible blueish purple blossoms were vibrant, energetic, so ALIVE—everything we were that summer.

It was the summer of his Camaro. We drove everywhere together. Top down, music loud, sixteen and eighteen, the freest we had been in our entire lives.

Our friends joked around, teasing that it seemed like we were dating. They never saw one of us without the other being there. What was going on between us, wink wink? But I didn’t care.

They hadn’t been there for the previous fifteen years of my life; the years where my brother and I fought every day, all day, constant and inescapable. They weren’t there for the tears, the childish journaling of my hatred towards him, feeling unwanted, despised, and alone. As a mother now, I cannot fathom how my mother survived parenting the two of us together. It was constant, petty, typical siblings, twenty months apart.

We passed by those morning glories on the way to his band practice, concerts, pick-up volleyball at the park, soccer, amusement parks, road trips to visit our sister in college, gym workouts, friends’ houses, movies and youth group. They witnessed our comings and goings, splashing out in their brilliant colors again every morning.

His hair was surfer boy shaggy that year and he let me braid it into pretend dreadlocks. Hundreds of the tiniest braids I could manage to create. It was silly and fun, just because, why not? We could and so we did.

He met his future wife that September and was married by the following March. It had been my last summer with him, before he left to create his own family.

I have always known to treasure each unique moment with friends and family—aware in those precious seconds that they are fleeting. I don’t look back with regret wishing I had cherished that summer more. Because I was drinking it in even then; I already knew it was irreplaceable.  

The morning glories have never grown that way again. Sure, a few scattered blooms here and there, maybe three tendrils reaching their way up the posts towards the ceiling, but that is all. Only that one summer were they crazy, wild, free and oh so glorious, proving again and again each morning how they earned their name. But it seems fitting.

They represent that unforgettable summer for me. I’m glad that they are locked up in my memories of that year and are not still here to taunt me. I miss them terribly.