We didn’t know, then, if he would ever speak. If we would ever hear that sweet, sweet voice

MYbrother turns 14 this week.

My baby brother.

The one who has Down syndrome.

That means that one year ago was his bar mitzvah.

One year ago, I stood in the ezras nashim of the small shul where Ezra had his aliyah l’Torah, clutched my siddur, and positioned my girls so they could see their uncle.

One year ago, I pulled the curtain aside to watch my little brother stand straight and (not very) tall at the bimah. I watched as my father draped the tallis over his square shoulders and the Torah scroll was opened.

And then I heard his voice. His deepening, gravelly voice, the voice we waited so long to hear, back when he was a very cute, very small, very sick toddler. Back when he was in and out of the hospital, struggling with chronic lung disease, developmental delays, and a hearing impairment.

We didn’t know, then, if he would ever speak. If we would ever hear that sweet, sweet voice.

His first word was Tali. My name.