The tattoo on my brother’s arm was the last thing I recognized

Dear Delyara, My brother had been missing for four months when the police asked us to identify a body. His face had changed too much. I could not do it. I stood behind the glass staring at someone who might have been the boy who slept in the bed beside mine, stole my shirts, broke my nose during a fight, and called every Sunday after we both had children. Then the attendant uncovered part of his arm. There was the tattoo: a crooked blue swallow he got at seventeen after lying about his age. Our mother had screamed when she saw it. I had laughed because one wing was larger than the other. I knew immediately. That stupid bird was my brother. I said yes. One word. Four months of searching ended because of a bad tattoo none of us had wanted him to get. Tonight, relatives are calling, and everyone keeps saying at least we know now. Knowing feels nothing like relief. I keep seeing that swallow on his arm. When he came home with it at seventeen, Mum told him he would regret it for the rest of his life. She was wrong. I am the one who will carry it for the rest of mine.