Brian.

“People would stare at her because she was such a little monkey,” my father enjoys telling me, referring to my sister as a newborn, less than four pounds, shriveled and red, ferociously kicking off the blankets wrapped tightly around her as she attempted to fight her way out of the bassinette in the hospital nursery. “You… people would stare at you because you were so beautiful. Your skin was so pale it was nearly translucent, like a porcelain doll. So fragile. So helpless.”

That fragile and helpless state persisted into my childhood, as my mother says, because I was so small. She recalls the carpool she drove to Montessori School when I was three years old. “Brian and Andy would argue over who would have the privilege of buckling your seatbelt. You were so tiny and delicate that everyone wanted to help you,” she explains. When I try to conjure up the memory of those trips to school, in my mind, it was Brian who won the argument time and time again. Blonde haired, blue eyed, five-year-old Brian was my protector, my hero.

My penchant for boys lucky enough to have been named Brian continued throughout my life. Always, I saw them as huge influences: crushes, best friends, romantic interests, confidantes and mentors. Brian, the sixth grader who played big brother Charlie Brown to my little sister Sally in the school play. Brian, my best friend in high school, for whom I harbored a deeply devastating unrequited love. Brian, my Malaysian friend to whom I proposed marriage so that he would be able to stay in the country. Brian, the amazingly gifted, compassionate and blackly sardonic public defender I interned for after my first year of law school. And more. The list goes on and on.