“When my mom died, he kept it all together. He knew how to take care of me and be strong.”
“I’m sure he struggled,” I said desperate to soothe him. He was so hurt and fragile. This big, confident man so full of life was just as alone as the rest of us. My heart ached for him.
I stayed kneeling looking up at him as he walked in circles.
“You should be mad,” I said.
He stilled and looked at me. “No. Anger is for the weak. Anger is a young man’s emotion. For toddlers. That’s what he would say.”
“Emotions make you human,” I said.
“They make me a coward. They make me run.” He stopped and took me in. I saw myself in his eyes, kneeling in front of him, eyes wide, mouth open in wonder. “You have no idea how fucking weak I am. If you had any idea …” He tore his gaze away from me and paced.
“You can be angry.” I threw out my arms. “Just be mad. Feel it. Accept it. It doesn’t have to consume you. You can acknowledge it without letting it define you.”
He shook his head.
“Be mad, Sanders. Feel it.”
“At who?” he asked.
“The world. God. The universe. Me. Your dad. The situation. The air you breathe. It doesn’t matter. You can be angry. And then you can move on. Take it in like a breath and then let it go. It’s horrible and it is so not fair.”
“I am angry. I’m so fucking angry.” He kicked the swing but it must have not satisfied him enough.
He kicked the ground but the foam flooring just absorbed the impact. He punched the air. Finally, he went to the trees a few feet away and picked up a large branch. I wouldn’t even be able to lift it above my head and yet he swung it around, flourishing it like a sword. His arms flexed in strength. He smacked it against the swing set, the metal rang out in response. The muscles of his back and shoulders pushed and pulled with the effort. He swung it again and again like a blacksmith shaping a sword.
He looked like a man finding truth. As though he was trying to cleanse himself. Breaking free of the invisible chains that had been holding him to the earth. If wings sprouted from his back and lifted him into the air, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
When he finally stopped, his shoulders were hunched as he heaved in ragged breaths. Turning back to me, he dropped to the ground where I still knelt, pulling me into his lap and burying his head in my chest. I held him tight to me.
“It’s not fair that you lost them both,” I said.
“It’s not fair. It’s bullshit. He was everything to me. After my mom died, it was just me and him. And Skip,” he said with a sad laugh.
“Tell me about him,” I said.
“He had such a presence. Everybody loved him.”
“Sounds familiar,” I teased and I felt him smile against my chest.
“He was everything I wanted to be.”
“He sounds amazing.” I ran my fingers through Sanders’ hair.
“He was. Fuck.” He nuzzled deeper into me with a shuddering sigh.
“I know,” I said.
He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed me closer. I had to wrap my legs around his waist to let him get as close as he needed.
He gasped as though he couldn’t fight back the pain. “To go out like that …” His voice broke off again.
“He’s still the same man he always was. How you and Skip remember him. That’s who he is.”
He nodded against me.
“Sometimes I think …”
