Wedding photographers loved my brother Nate. In his prime he was a smooth dancer. Generous to a fault. The women, from the Grandma of the bride to the flower girl, knew that with Nate in their arms they are assured their spot in the wedding album. Whenever he waltzed into town he’d drop a dime and I’d meet him at the diner on the corner of Hertle and Main for a quick chat ‘n chew. Breakfast sunny-side up for him, poached for me as I was forever counting calories. He never gave me much warning. Usually I had a good fifteen minutes to figure it out, thirty tops. He’s the only family I have so I made allowances. Yesterday when I got the call, I scrambled to make it work as it had been years since we last met. It was only when he smiled that I noticed that he was missing his front teeth and that his shirt was frayed. But his eyes still telegraphed confidence as if the girls were lining up to dance with him.