July 9, 2002
Baby Brother
Yesterday I lost a brother and gained a tool kit.
So my Mom, Dad, and I are sitting in the car, my parents trying to discreetly wipe away the tears that are springing to their eyes, hidden under dark sunglasses each. My sunglasses have transparent violet lens. It's quite obvious that I'm hysterically crying.
So I take them off.
Justin returns from the recruiter's office, tells us when he'll be taking the bus to Columbus, when tomorrow's (today's) flight is. We all get out of the car, and give him tight hugs. I give him mine first, then turn my back so he can't see just how hard I am crying.
He's so little to me. He will always be little to me. When did he get this strange notion of growing up?
Sighs are heaved. We get back in the car. He looks back, just once, and I wonder how his face will have thinned after Basic Training. Will he look more like Dad? Will it be at all evident that we are brother and sister, as it has never been in the past?
We don't say anything for some time, and there is only the sound of our sniffling because the radio is broken.
Mom thinks he'll come back. He'll realize, just as I did, how close we all are, and he'll come back.
But I had a choice. He won't.
I'm not going to go into the rest of the day. Let's say I mentioned in passing that Mike and I played a game of chess, and I won, and we are officially dating now.
I feel okay. Now that Justin is gone, I can look forward to him coming back.
astera at 10:39 a.m.