I remember that day, lingering outside the pub in our daggy tracksuits, gazing up at the picture of a strange bloke in a turban and Max sucking too noisily on his 'Nilla Shake' as the straw rotated like a vacuum cleaner to reach the last skerricks. He was two years older than me, but I was his older brother and carer.

ZOLTAR SPEAKS, the poster proclaimed.

I knew the sultan, or whatever, was supposed to grant a wish, but what should I go for? More wishes: nope, I knew that was against the rules. A lottery win: nope, money would not fix my brother. Actually, that f-word was banned from the house. Mum blew up one night, yelling 'he's not broken'. I often referred back to that, it was helpful when struggling to keep perspective. Those moments, lingering by the tiled rubbidy wall, on that day, were significant because they gelled an intention in my young mind. I was a cluey kid, probably smarter, at least wiser, than I am now. I read and understood the landscape and knew my way around.

So, I gazed up at the bearded face, mustering earnestness, and mouthed my desire without speaking. It was both a wish and a promise; that I always wanted to be around my brother so that I could be of help.

There was so much Max did not notice, which was good in a way. The teasing, the stares, the head shakes and his own oddness. If we had to wait in line at the store or the bus stop, he would begin to rock, and sing 'makin' lazy circles in the sky yippi-i' in a strange, airy monotone and draw round shapes in the space in front of him with an index finger. We have no idea where the song came from. He was like a Dictaphone, collecting sayings and exclamations over the years, so we had to be careful what we said. That's why I didn't let him hear my wish.

"He didn't get that from me," dad would protest.

Life wasn't that tough really; we had our schedules and there were a lot of laughs at Max's expense. He could be like an extremely funny, deadpan comic. One day he shaved off his eyebrows, and he would sometimes stand in the back yard and screech like Mrs Lawson's cockatoo, sending her into a tizz, running about in her housecoat, believing her bird had escaped.

"That boy should be in a home," she protested.

"He is," mum replied.

After I was accepted into university, we all sensed a shift in the Force, even Max. We all knew my parents would not cope without my help so we, reluctantly, found him appropriate boarding accommodation. I was able to visit often, early in the piece, to get him settled into new routines and illustrate the best soothing techniques.

Following that it became a case of best intentions. I carried on my studies, met someone, settled a little too far away and before long, had my own pigeon pair to raise. Mum and dad got the travelling bug and were away a lot. Max wasn't forgotten, there just wasn't room in other people's busy lifestyles. I knew my new family would not readily accept him and he could not 'accept' them in any tangible fashion.

He could be scary to outsiders. Sometimes, when greatly, agitated he would chant 'Oh my God, oh my God', over and over and start slapping his face quite hard. Whenever I was with him and that happened, I would get upset too and wonder why he wasn't trying to slap me because I was the one who got something wrong. But he was never physical with us.

I didn't give up after we were separated though, sending birthday and Christmas cards and regular letters, mostly mentioning cars, flags, bridges and anything else he was interested in. Got no replies, of course. His absence was keenly felt, he had been the focus of the household's thinking, conversations, plans and even language, with never much resentment. There were scores of Maxisms and running jokes. He was in my DNA and subsequently I introduced my college mates and children to his sayings and doings. He had made me a more considerate and empathetic person.

I owed him, and later, when he contracted pneumonia, I took time off work and stayed nearby, visiting twice a day. He was heavily medicated, and the nurses wondered why I bothered. It filled a deep need, and whilst at his bedside, I realised there had been a secret twist to my fervent, boyish wish. I had it the wrong way around.

Max was always my security blanket; I was never his. It felt good to know that and find time to honour his contribution.

After he recovered and returned to a contented, yet insular, existence, I saw him regularly and when he died it left a needy hole. As a gesture, once a year, I buy a Vanilla milkshake from his favourite cafe, take it down to where we stood that day and toast his memory. At the bottom of the shake, I make plenty of loud, ceremonious, slurping noises until the first passer-by screws up their nose in disgust. Then I allow myself an inward smile.