When I was eight, my brother was twelve. His hands were bigger than mine, a little wiser, more experienced. They could make fists tighter, spin a dish rag so fast it could balance on his middle finger or contort into shapes that could unlock the secrets hiding in a fret board. It was the year we both would begin marshal arts. Before private lesson teachers and tape tests, we had senseis and belt rankings. I think it's what ripened our minds for music. How many eight year olds are forced to meditate before they're about to learn something? This was also the year we would turn against each other. The inevitable seed of sibling rivalry was planted the moment Eric was given a brother, and now the sprout had reached the top soil.

Brotherhood is a paragon for what a psychologist would call the other mind's problem. It's the problem we have in our young age, the time before we're able to grasp that what is true in our minds might not be true in another's. A two year old assumes that if he likes chocolate, then everyone else likes chocolate too. Although an eight year old has developed past the point of a two year old's cognitive abilities, the remnants of this phenomenon last into adolescents and significantly shapes our level of curiosity as adults. I was still grappling with the idea that if I wanted to spend time with my brother, then naturally it should be true that he would want the same with me.

Five days a week, for nearly six years, my brother and I lived at the dojo after school. This was a place where instead of breaking rules, we broke boards and the occasional brick. Life at home was isolating and a bit confusing, but at the dojo we were forced to confront each other and ourselves. Our senseis became second parents, able to detect the more subtle inner enemies we were battling. When we got into trouble at home or school, we'd be punished at the dojo. I had a scuffle with a kid once when I was twelve. He followed me home on his bike, taunting me with every stroke of his peddle. Eventually, we threw our bikes down, walked out into a field where I was able to calculate a single quick kick to his gut. I got back on my bike and rode home to tell mom. Before I could complete my defense, we were on our way to see sensei. My sentence was extra time at the bag after class, the makawara board (a ruff and unforgiving pad one punches until the knuckles slightly bleed in order to callus them) and an essay on cultivating self control. I preferred any of these disciplines, though, to sensei's method for making peace with my brother.

The dojo was a family. We traveled together, competed, learned, meditated, worked out, talked, laughed and quite literally, fought together. So when there was a wrinkle in that fabric, the iron came out. Although, a tangle might be a better framework to describe the predicament in which Eric and I always seem to find one another. It reminds me of the knot one learns when tying a karate belt. To learn it properly, one must unlearn their first inclinations, beginning with a wrap from the front rather than the back. In the same way it seems, before we would be able to talk, we needed to fight. There's information that can only be found out in the way we go TO one another.

I was nearly nine the first time I felt the oscillating nature of our friendship. Age gaps have this quality of general relativity, feeling for some reason far larger when we're young. Eric had reached the prime preteen year when he no longer wanted to be fort building buddies or pog partners. It confused me. The moment that discourse could be sensed at the dojo, sensei readied the iron. "Eric! Collin! Gear up," sensei shouted upon dismissing the last class for the evening. Now both confused, our eyes connected for the first time in what felt like months. With his hands, Sensei instructed us to line up facing each other, the usual ritual to begin any match. He bowed to us, which signaled us to bow to each other. In disbelief, we watched as he stepped back with one foot, held his hands together straight out in front of his torso and said the words that would make this moment real, "Fight." My heart was pounding, my focus narrowed, my guard up. I waited. Eric carried his reluctance in his hands, never fully raised, always ready to return to his sides. He didn't want to hurt me, at least, not in front of anyone. We circled each other, unraveling a bit of the tangle with each revolution, then tightening the remaining knots with hesitation. Neither one of us was going to strike first, and neither did. Sensei paused the match, signaling us to return to our lines to face each other. Emotionless, he stepped back once more to begin another round. "Fight!" And again, elliptical hesitations were the only thing made. It went on like this until somehow we psychically knew, in the same moment, we'd be stuck orbiting one another until we got on with it. Each of us reached his own decision to strike in that moment, Eric readying a punch and I readying a kick. It was the best chance I had at even reaching him. He was a foot taller, a foot longer, and a few inches wider in every limb. Eric's option was the kinder of the two, which to his usual lack of luck did not play out to his intentions. My kick soared toward his gut, his punch unfolding a millisecond faster. Slam!

My back hit the wood floor, forcing the last bit of wind from my lungs. Running straight into his fist with my solar plexus had squeezed nearly every particle of oxygen from my bloodstream. Sensei's demeanor was unchanged, although he was now down beside me on one knee. "Breathe," he said, calmly. The first time you feel the wind knocked out of you is what I imagine dying from a heart attack actually feels like. When I had finally regained control of my diaphragm, I noticed Eric holding his head in the same hand that had rendered me horizontal. I couldn't tell if he was more scared for me, or himself. Sensei looked up toward him and said, "This is your only brother. Even in conflict, your job is to protect him. It requires far more power to show restraint." This was a lesson not only for this moment, but for the national competitions we'd be fighting in, only a few years later. One is rewarded a full point for pulling a punch or a kick within an inch of the face. Sensei helped me to my feet. "Collin, we must learn to face our fears, even when we know we'll get hurt. Bravery isn't about not being afraid. True courage is moving forward knowing we might fail."

Eric and I connected eyes again with a quick double nod of understanding mixed with the relief that it had ended. "Dismissed," sensei punctuated with a notable trace of compassion. We walked off the floor side by side, two separate minds, loosening the knots in our belts and a bit more of the tangle of our brotherhood.