Brian

We approached the door with caution; we knew what was inside, and facing it was not what one desires at the ripe old age of 10. Mama had taught us all to love and cherish each other. Papa taught us to be men and, stand up to bullies, never cry in public. But I couldn’t help it.

The tears came and had left trails down my cheeks, my nose ran, and I wiped it on the sleeve of my clean white shirt. Grandma had ironed it this morning, but one could not tell by the wrinkles which came from hiding under my bed. They had searched for over an hour before they found me.

Even some of the older people were silent and troubled by the day’s events. Brian, my older brother, had been a handful, they said. He stole apples from the market, teased the girls in school, and made me do his dishes. Even though his life was full of mischief, everyone loved him and his zest for life; always smiling, always happy.

No one knew this would happen; it was just a joke, a simple moment of fun. He jumped onto the tracks and was gone. I knew he was on the other side laughing as I screamed. He was on the other side and everywhere else; he didn’t know the other train track would be busy too.

But now I would have his room and need to babysit the others, and help Papa, and … I don’t want to go in and see him.

6-28-12