I shrugged. “Thanks, George,” I replied. As least it was
better than last time I saw him when he appeared at my door with a bag of moldy
oranges and a bad case of lice.
Even though he lives a 30 minute train ride away from me, I
only see George about once a year and I can’t say I wish it were more. I do
enjoy his visits, not because his company is by any means enjoyable but because
I feel a burden lifted, knowing that he is still alive.
George is my older brother. When we were children we were
inseparable. He was perfectly protective. Even though he was only two years
older than me, I felt safe whenever he was around.
That changed when he turned sixteen. Age sixteen seems to be
one of the first major pivot points in life. Windows begin to open that you
didn’t even know existed and you begin to question every piece of wise advice
you’ve ever been offered. For George, the pressure to push the line seemed to
be unbearable. He turned into a monster. Within a matter of a few months,
George had turned from my best friend to my biggest enemy.
In elementary school he would always wait outside of my
classroom to walk home with me. My first day of high school he waited in the
parking lot as though intending to give me a ride, but as soon as I would reach
for the door he would slam on his accelerator without a glance behind. I was
heartbroken, but I got used to it and learned to brush off his constant taunts
and live a life independent of him.
I didn’t see him for 10 years after he left home. Every once
in a while I would hear rumors and whisperings of what he was up to, but I
wasn’t all that eager to talk about him. To be honest, sometimes I forgot I
even had a brother.
-Steph
-Steph
No comments:
Post a Comment