“If they don't accept Mike, they don't accept me and they aren't welcome.”

　　My brother, Michael, was born one month before his due date. He was retarded, and he also had cerebral palsy. He never lost his baby teeth, never grew taller than about 30 inches and never weighed more than 28 pounds. They did estimate, however, that he would not live to see his 12th birthday.

　　As a boy I learned to feed and clothe Mike. As a teenager, I babysat for my “big brother” and learned the proper dosage of medicine to prevent the seizures that caused him to stiffen and tremble.

　　Many people said he would never walk or talk, and should be institutionalized. He never did learn to walk, but he did learn to talk —not even in complete sentences, but he had the basics down. If he was hungry, thirsty, happy or sad, we knew. Cake. Cookies. Candy bar. Water-water. Cry.

　　He knew names too. I was Kagun, not Kevin. But that changed with a beard I grew during the summer before college. Family members said it was ugly. Mike heard it.

　　“Look who's at home. Who's that?” they'd say to Mike. “Ugly,” he would respond with delight.

　　All of which—to me—was normal, for he was the only brother I knew. The only time I thought of the differences between us was when others pointed them out. A stare in a restaurant, a pointed finger on the street, or a comment by another kid in the schoolyard.

　　His effect on some people was special, however. Big, tough men crumbled when he smiled, giggled and winked at them. One in particular, a hot-tempered man who had been on the wrong side of the law more than once, always asked about him. He'd often give Mom a few dollars and tell her, “Get something for the little guy, will you?”

　　My circle of friends widened when I entered high school. One day Mom asked if my new friends would have a problem seeing Mike for the first time. “If they don't accept Mike, they don't accept me and they aren't welcome,” I said.

　　And if I didn't think of him as different, I never thought about him dying either. On a warm fall night in 1998, Mike had a seizure. With this first seizure, Mike's life was beginning to fade. His immune system was defenseless. His seizures intensified and became more frequent. His bones would break with little cause.

　　On March 15, 1999, Mike died. A bout with pneumonia quietly squeezed life from him. Michael Patrick Harter—just 26 years old— died in Mom's arms.

　　We never had those great talks other brothers have about women, work and parents. We never played catch or talked about our dreams. But Mike taught me compassion and strength. He taught me respect for those less fortunate than myself. And he taught me an appreciation of the beauty in the simplest things.

　　Physically and mentally, I was my brother's keeper. Spiritually, Mike was and is my keeper—a nearly silent guardian angel.