I went for a run today, circling the high school.
Around
the time the last bell would ring, students were already starting to
file out, and by the time I made it back to my neighborhood, there was
quite a group of high schoolers making their way home. They get smaller
and they multiply each year.
I
noticed one mom, weighed down with a couple bags, walking towards the
end of the pathway that leads from the parking lot to my neighborhood.
She was smiling, probably looking at her child hop down the steps.
And
it never occurred to me that by the time I got back home, hearing
Alfred's response to my shouting his name would be the most reassuring
sound of the day. In the same way my dad must feel when we finally
answer one of his calls.
Even
seeing his trumpet, his backpack, and his new personalized sneakers
(don't ask) strewn about at the doorway, I still need to hear his
annoyed response before I can take another step into my house.
My
brother's not between the ages of 5 and 10 anymore, but that's how I'll
always think of him. When he's cussing at the TV, playing his new
Black Ops game (or whatever). When he's telling me about his seven
classes, his letter grades, his best friend's "girlfriend." When he's
finally a foot or so taller than me, he'll always be between the ages of
5 and 10 because I'll always introduce him as my baby brother.
I
can't even imagine what it must be like to watch the sun disappear
behind the mountains without the sound of his (and Max's) excited voice
floating from his room. Or what it must be like to be calmly sitting on
the couch watching TV after just waking up and then to receive news of a
lock down at Phillips. Not being able to watch another of his
basketball games or participate in another senseless argument about who
is more stupid. How empty this house would feel, knowing my baby brother was no longer wasting away his time in the room next door.
I can't even imagine those families who now have to bury their child who was only between the ages of 5 and 10.
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