It was so weird seeing my parents in grave stones.
It was almost immoral to see my little brother in one.
He looked so innocent; his body still young, not even filling half of the length, and his skin looked paler than I had ever seen. It was obvious that he was sporting makeup, since I couldn’t quite see his freckles dotting along his cheek.
I carried a tissue with me when everyone else was silent, and our priest said the last word, asking everyone to pay their last respects.
And as if on cue, perfect for this day, the skies were cloud with thick, dark ominous clouds, signifying rain soon. So I carried an umbrella with me, just in case it started to downpour. However, my attention was focused on my baby brother.
I remembered all the times I’ve seen him.
I remembered when my mom first brought him home, and how amazed I was to stare into his blue eyes, and how he smiled up at me, his wide cheeks a rosy color. I remembered how I held his tiny hand in mine, my darker skin contrasting with his lighter ones.
I remembered how excited my mom was when Chris first said Momma.
I remembered when he first walked; he had this huge smile on his face, like most of the time when he was a toddler, and I’ve never seen my mom so proud and happy.
I remembered when I first walked with him into kindergarten. I suggested doing it, even though it was more typical for parents to do it. However, Chris wasn’t shy. He was eager to get to meet new people and make new friends. He was always quite popular with people, always having one or more friends, which was why I also saw a lot of boys his age here today with their parents.
His entire young, short life flashed before me, and I wept.
I wept because he didn’t have the chance to grow up.
He had his chance selfishly taken away from him, seized horribly from his own hands. He was supposed to grow up—why didn’t he even get a chance?
It wasn’t like he did anything horrible in the world. He was too young to even make an impact.
He was so innocent.
He was pure.
So why would God take that away?
And why did he have to take my parents with him? I had my Nan, and my aunt even though she lived in three states away. But nonetheless, I felt alone. Deserted.
I felt like I should be dead with them.
Why was I alive?
You’re alive because you hid in the closet, like a coward. You let your own brother die.
