What He Left Behind

3. Cody

Seven years.

Seven years ago, I left our grandfather's house for college. I left Clarence then, only seeing him a year later to bury our grandfather. I barely talked to him then, maybe only a few words, before seeing him whisked away with another estranged family member because he was a minor.

Had he known before I left?

He was sixteen. Sixteen.

I would've done everything differently if I had known that the funeral would be the last time I saw him.

But that was the thing about death and the following guilt. There was no replay button, no way to turn back time and get things right. No way to voice the things I should have said.

I followed Ezra with my eyes downward, afraid to catch yet another glimpse of my brother's life I missed out on. He stopped at what looked like a hall closet; luckily, not Clarence's room.

The hand on my wrist retreated, moving swiftly to the door handle and fumbling through a few boxes from the shelves. He placed them on the ground between us.

"What is all this?" Ezra either ignored me or couldn't hear me over the sound of moving the boxes on the floor. He lifted the lids, searching through them before hesitating on one, slowly unveiling the box's contents.

"Clary loved you." Ezra's words hit me like a freight train, nearly as bad as the call that told me he passed. "He never once blamed you for anything."

While I can't believe those words, something in Ezra's tone sounded sincere, especially how his eyes softened when they met my face.

"I know it may sound like a lie or rehearsed words that Clarence would've wanted to say, but there's no catch. There was never a moment in which he indicated otherwise, and I think this proves that." He held up the childhood items I had left behind, from the blankets our mother had crocheted for us as babies with our names on them to the crazy amount of photo albums my father insisted on making for us through the years.

I lowered myself to the floor as my eyes took it all in. Ezra opened the others, revealing more albums and loose trinkets from our childhood home. Things I hadn't remembered held sentimental value in my youth, bringing up old memories and emotions.

"He kept all of this?"

Ezra nodded, pulling out a photo of Clarence and me posing in front of a Christmas tree. He smiled down at it before handing it to me. On the back, listed the year my mom took the photo. The year before our parents died, the last Christmas photo. "There's more in his room. I imagine it would be best to wait before going in there. I've only been able to stomach going there to grab a few things."

"I..." My words faltered as Ezra's eyes trail to the closed door between the closet and the other room. "Maybe I should."

I'd have to eventually; maybe ripping it off like a bandaid was the best approach.

"You sure?"

I wasn't, but I nodded anyway. Ezra gave it a few seconds before pushing the boxes to the side, neatly putting some things away before standing. I followed after him with the photo still in hand.

Ezra's hand trembled with the door knob, so I touched his shoulder. "You okay? Maybe it's not for the best; I can do it alone."

Ezra shook his head. "I'll be okay."

Before I could protest and opt to do this later, Ezra pushed the door open.

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this.

Nothing was out of place, yet the space didn't feel like Clarence at all. The bed was made, no clutter remained on the nightstand, and everything looked clean and spotless. The decor and color choices did seem like Clarence, but he loved clutter—he leaned into maximalism as a kid. Maybe it was for the best that it felt like someone else had lived here. Or maybe, it was worst; nothing was there to prove that my brother was here, that his presence could be felt in this room.