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It was my brother who told me about Mrs. Wilson, the woman who lived next door to us with her two dogs and truck-driving husband. In the summer of 1993 Ben had been home from the first Gulf War only a few months. As a five year old boy, I idolized my twenty-two year old brother, seeing him as a hero in uniform, as a man who'd served his country with great pride and dedication. With his body hardened by war and the best physical training in the world, Ben presented himself as a prime physical specimen to everyone he met. So many times, as he lay in the sun on our patio, our mother's female friends stared openly at Ben's usually topless body as he lay in the sun, allowing the warm rays to tan his skin. Now that he was home, my brother and I created a bond even the best of friends could never match. For the rest of his life, we went everywhere together, knew the same people, and despite the differences in age, we literally became inseparable.

But there was one bit of information that Ben had decided to keep from me. Well, that is until he received the diagnosis of terminal cancer and realized his time on Earth was limited. Ben waited until I was a young man of twenty-eight years old to sit me down with a beer and to describe to me the special relationship he'd had with the older Mrs. Wilson. By that time, which was near his forty-fifth birthday, I guess he wanted to make sure I was mature enough to understand that we don't always find ourselves attracted to someone closer to our own age. "It kind of just happened, Pete," my older brother said to me before taking the next hour to describe how he and Mrs. Wilson had carried on a ...

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