mrs gren

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: October 30, 2017

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Submitted: October 30, 2017

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I walk along the path wondering what my little brother will ask when I walk in the door. There’s always a question awaiting an answer at home. Hey big brother how do I spell this? Hey big brother what does this round thingy do? Aren’t all round things a wheel? But why isn’t this thingy a wheel? It looks like one and if it looks like one then it must be one! Right big brother? I still don’t get it big brother.

My brother likes to ask questions more than the presenter on The Hot Seat. He has always been inquisitive. Mum says my brother will make a fine journalist someday. I walked in the kitchen and said, ‘You should put that big mouth to good use, I bet you’d make an interesting Detective.’ He seemed to like this idea. ‘Hell yeah, I’m gonna be an awesome detective!’ He gave me such an enthusiastic high five that we had to repeat a few times until he heard the satisfying boom that only the sound of two hands pushing against air could make. The kinetic energy we are filling the air with, coloured in the grey areas and carved out the smile mum only ever gives for those special moments.

I don’t think any one word can describe those moments, those smiles we all have. Those moments when my brother cuddled up to her like a kitten needing comfort from a long day. The times when I screw up. The times I succeed, when I remind my parents of their own lives. Those moments we love to capture on our phones and in our hearts. Those moments we wish to commit to memory forever. The moments we would protect with every breath in our body. We know how fragile they are. We hold them tight. Relevant or irrelevant. Real or not real.

Last Monday it was, ‘Big Brother can you come build this with me?’

‘What do you say?’

‘Pleeease.’

‘Yeah, alright give me five minutes I have to…’

I wonder if there are possibly any more questions to be asked.

 A leaf falls in front of my eyes. I realise I can think of a hundred and one questions to ask about this leaf. What tree it came from. How old it is. The endless possibilities of life itself and what lies beyond life is more than enough to fill a century with an infinite amount of questions. The World is big, and I know many things in my life of fifteen years and 10 months.

I stand on the tips of my toes as I reach to unhook the latch from the inside of my busted green picket fence. I hear a muffled bark. Another, slightly different, fills the air. The two creatures pop their heads out of the curtains. They see me. They let out a few excited yelps then run to the door to greet me.

I know it’s not too long now. I know their will come a time when the questions he asks I can no longer answer. I fear that day. I fear the day when I can no longer answer. I fear the day I can no longer find out. I fear the day I can no longer comfort. I fear the days that Monophobia is stronger. The days I am weak. I fear the day when I no longer matter.

I wrap my knuckles against the glazed glass door, tapping a tune. I always make a tune so I can knock as loudly as possible and still be recognized as a loved one. I see the shape of my brother behind the glass.

Click…


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