There are some places that sympathy cannot reach. There are some people who will never

really be able to empathize, yet live under the false impression that they know. They

will never know, they will never understand, and while it is not a knowledge that one

should ever wish upon another, it is difficult to reserve pity for their constant state of

ignorance.

The day someone close to you dies is a day you will never forget. Every word, every

feeling, and every anguished tear clings to you for the rest of your life, haunting the

recesses and shadows of your mind, waiting, dormant, to resurface whenever the rest of

the world lapses into silence.

I remember that day; I remember those words, I remember every feeling, and some days I

could swear that my eyes ache from spilling so many wretched tears.

It had been raining all day. I thought it fitting that the clouds were a deep mournful gray

and that the normally beaming sun was absent from the once cheerful sky. To this day I

still like to think that the heavens were lamenting, that some godly being somewhere

cared for our human frailties.

“Honey?”

I stirred from my perch on the hospital bench, turning confused eyes towards my mother.

Her hand came down to rest on my shoulder, and I resisted the urge to shake it off. I

wanted to be with my family almost as much as I wanted to be alone.


But I could not be alone. Everywhere throughout the hospital there were people: weeping

people, smiling people, helpful people, hopeful people and despairing people. They

walked passed in a variety of shapes, sizes and disarray. No one

looked at me, hunched over on the bench, clinging to myself in an attempt to reconnect

with reality.


With some effort, I focused my gaze back on my mother’s face. She wore no makeup, a

wise choice, as my mascara had already begun to burn my eyes.


“Honey, would you like to go see him?”

I nodded numbly, stumbling to my feet and into the room behind me. My father and my

sister sat at his bedside, each holding one of his limp hands. He turned his head towards

me; it seemed to loll on the pillow. I was dimly amazed that he had the strength and

motivation to smile. It was not a cold smile or a stiff smile, but a happy smile. I was sure

he had realized the irony; the youngest would be the first among us to die, but he was not

bitter, instead he reveled in a benine pleasure that he would be the one to die, rather than

another.

As I peered down at his rapidly waning face, I had no other choice but to believe that

God did want my younger brother by His side, for why else would God take such a

cherubic young man away from his family, other than to have him be exalted among real

cherubs?

My sister squeezed his hand one last time, and my father ruffled his hair. It was a casual

goodbye, an abrupt adieu, but my darling little brother would have had it no other way.

We were now alone, and the pungent scent of sickness wafted under my nostrils, teasing

me with thoughts of fleeing from the room. But I could not humor

my instincts; I had to ensure that my wobbling legs carried me safely to my seat.

I dropped into the chair, looking anywhere but at my brother. I did not want to see his

sickly eyes and sallow cheeks, but preferred to remember him as the healthy and
boisterous boy he’d been in life.

The room was dim but not disheartening. It was spacious enough, and plain,

with a distinct hospital smell and comfortable white bed.

I could almost feel my brother smile at my discomfort. He placed his hand over mine and

I turned my face towards him. The moment our eyes met I choked out a sob, covering my

mouth with my other hand.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I just…”

I could not finish, nor did I want to; instead I pressed his thin fingers in between mine. He

was so skinny! I felt suddenly conscious of my own excess body weight, as if I did not

deserve the luxury of fat. “You’re so cold,” I murmured, searching his green eyes

for something, anything.

“I know,” he said, sinking back into his pillow. His hair stuck to his sweaty forehead in

clumps. “I know.”

I scooted closer, digging my teeth into my lower lip.

“You’ll be okay.” My voice was faint, barely managing to cut through the silence that

pressed against us. If his ears weren’t already pricked for the slightest sound I don’t think

he would have heard me.

“I know,” he said again.

We sat in silence for what could have been five minutes, five seconds, maybe five hours.

He sighed, nestling deeper under the white sheets. His hand was so cold.

“I’m going to miss you,” I whispered, “I’m going to miss you so much. You’re the

youngest; you weren’t supposed to get sick. You aren’t supposed to…supposed to…”

I broke off, and he pushed himself up. His eyes never seemed so bright or so passionate,

his hands closed securely around mine.

“I know,” he said for the last time, “I know and I love you.”

I nodded, hot tears streaming down my frozen face, dropping off of my chin and onto the

floor, catching in my lips and clinging to my nose.

He did not shed a single tear, but squeezed my hands, with more strength then I would

have thought possible in his current state, and laid himself back down.

I got up and strode to the bathroom, closing the door delicately behind me. I turned to the

mirror and stared uncomprehendingly at my face, resting my elbows next to the sink,

swiping my nails at the caked on makeup under my eyelashes. I drew a deep, rattling

breath in a struggle to compose myself. It was difficult to go back outside. The air

seemed different.

I approached my beloved brother’s bedside, pressing my palm against his cheek.

Something was wrong. I gently touched my finger tips to his stomach, waiting. Upon

feeling nothing, I bent my ear towards his mouth, listening for what was perhaps merely a

belated breath. Lastly, to be sure, I ever so carefully pried open his jaw, meeting a strange

sort of resistance that I could only assume was death. There was a peculiar fluid

congealing in the corners of his mouth. I could not bring myself to say it out loud, but I

knew deep in my heart, that he was dead. My darling little brother was dead.

I stroked his soft brown hair away from his eyes, and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

“’Love you, baby boy,” I breathed, pulling my chair closer to him. I seated myself

gracefully, laid my head down on the comforter and wept. He was so cold.