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One thing Ethan and I had in common was our stubbornness, so rather than apologize, we figured out how to do everything one handed or together. We even played video games while sharing a controller.
Over time, we started to like spending time together. We didn’t need a shirt to bind us. We were already joined at the hip.
Ethan was a good brother.
I miss him.
I miss the sound of his footsteps down the hall.
I miss the way he’d knock on the bathroom door to remind me not to use all the hot water.
I miss his annoying victory dance every time he won a game.
I miss the way I could walk into his room unannounced, and he’d listen to me rant.
I miss when he brought me chocolate on a bad day.
I miss the way he stole my baseball caps in summer.
I miss reminding him to replace the toilet paper.
I miss the music he played too loudly.
I miss it all. The little things. The big things.Everything.
I just misshim.
My heart tightens like someone is squeezing it with their fist, choking the life out of it. Tears sting my eyes and dig my nails into my skin, trying to avoid the urge to run back inside.
It isn’t fair that I’m expected to move on with my life as if he wasn’t the very center of it. I wish it were me instead of him. I’m the problematic child. He was the angel.
It should’ve been me.
There’s a faint tug on my jacket.
Jordy stands next to me, bangs plastered to his forehead from the rain. “Are you okay?”
I straighten my back and rapidly blink the tears away. “Yeah, I’m just tired.”
“You look sad,” he says. “Your eyes are all red and everything.”
I love how little kids state the obvious—the things everyone else pretends not to notice. It’s not done in a mean way, but they don’t realize it’s like holding up a mirror and bringing attention to one’s flaws.
I could give a million excuses, but I doubt he’d buy any of them. I’d only be wasting my breath. Kids are usually way smarter than anyone gives them credit for. “You’re right. I am sad.”
I expect him to release his grip on my sweatshirt, but he doesn’t. If anything, he hangs on a little tighter. “It’s okay to be sad sometimes.”
“You think?”
“I get sad sometimes too,” he says. The gap from his missing tooth stands out with every word he says. “You don’t have to be sad alone. I’m right here.”
His little hand stays firmly in place, and I’m surprised how such little contact could be so comforting. It’s his version of a hug.
“Thank you,” I say with a sniffle. “You’re a smart kid.”
He smiles. “That’s what I’ve been telling people.”
I laugh. “I like you. You’re a good kid, Jordy.”
