Creative Cardinal #9
When I first saw him, tiny pale fist curled in on himself, his pink lips quivered. Tired, he would cry. I put my hand (not so big yet) on his head. It was like touching down feathers. My fingers felt so warm. I was only two and so I didn't really understand what this creature was, this rumpled ball of flesh and fat that sobbed constantly and drooled over everything, but I loved him anyway. I patted his head and whispered, "Bae. Bae."
My responsibility. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to keep him safe forever.
He had a yellow blanket when he was little. Yellow was his favorite color because it was "the happiest" or so he told me. "Celebration" was his favorite song. There was this Denny's commericial that always came on during Ninja Turtles and he'd always get up. His yellow, footed pajamas flew fluff everywhere and he jumped from couch to couch, singing at the top of his shrilly, silly lungs: "Celebrate good times! Come on!" I, who was too mature for some things, rolled my eyes. Then we pretended that the brown carpet was hot lava.
My responsibility. I will wrap him up in winnie-the-pooh sheet and put him in a laundry basket. He always wanted to play with my dolls. I didn't want him to because it wasn't right for boys to play with Barbies. Mommy just told me that it was because he wanted to play with his big sister, he wanted to be included in everything she did. He loved me so much.
He told me very solumnly one day after rocking it on the swingset that he was going to marry me someday. I took his hand and kissed it and told him that it was against the law, but he promised we'd find a way anyway. Silly boys. We played dress-up. I pushed him on the swingset, my slender arms trembling as I tried to rocket him to the sky. My brother. My one and only little brother.
Not always. Do you remember when our sibling came along? We didn't want him following us so we shoved him in a closet and told him not to come out. He didn't even cry, much. whenever we'd exclude him, he'd promptly roll over and take a nap. Sometimes we didn't even notice. Especially not the time we got Monopoly money all over my parent's bedroom, smeared across the carpet in jagged, paper rainbows.
Baseball bats with walnuts. The shells got everywhere. I remember his wailing in the other room. We both got spanked at once. Not always, though. Usually I was the first. When they hauled us in for shots, I always got it first and was told not to cry. I had to be brave and take it so that my younger brother would know that it was okay. For him, I bit my lip. For him, I refused to cry a tear. Not until I was alone, anyway. It was my responsibility.
Alone. Maybe...maybe...maybe... He wanted to be with me always. And we were together, most of the time. We made num-chucks out of soda-straws and marshmallow men out of toothpicks. But there were days when I wearied of him hanging on to me, when I slammed the door in his face and leaned my back up against it so that I could play alone. The cars drove over the play mats the way I wanted them to, the blocks could be built in towers that he never knocked down, and I wouldn't have to explain the awkward story lines pumping through the tiny figures that danced at my command. He didn't understand rape but I did, even then. And the toy women would be hurt and trembling only to be rescued by a knight in shining armor who turned out to be not a knight at all, merely another villain trying to make girls do thing they didn't want to do. Things they couldn't quite remember afterwards. Maybe if I hadn't shut him out, maybe if I hadn't hid that part of myself maybe he'd trust me more today. Maybe he would have trusted me more before. Maybe things wouldn't have gotten this out of hand.
He doesn't like the color yellow anymore. What do you do when the boy who was everything to you, the boy who was your responsibility, loses the joy inside his eyes? What are you supposed to do when he comes to you with the blood running down his arm, telling you that he cut himself with eyes cold and never moving. He held the razor that cut along his own skin, crying that he didn't deserve to live.
Bae. Bae. They tell you he's not your problem. They tell you he's beyond your control. They tell you that you have to live your own life and let him live his, but how can you possibly do that when you were the one who held him up in the swimming pool, who gave him rides on your back when you were both learning how to swim? We called it the water taxi. I'd spin him so fast he'd inhale water bubbles and mommy would scold me but we'd do it again.
How do you go on when the one thing that mattered to you more than anything else in the world suddenly changes into something that you never thought it could be. And your friends are still laughing and your teddy bear still smiles but you look up into a Godless sky screaming inside because the pain is so much. You were responsible for him and you FAILED.
All I can think of on days like this, are yellow footed pajamas and words to a Denny's commercial: So bring your good times, and your laughter too... We gonna celebrate your party with you....
My responsibility. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to keep him safe forever.
He had a yellow blanket when he was little. Yellow was his favorite color because it was "the happiest" or so he told me. "Celebration" was his favorite song. There was this Denny's commericial that always came on during Ninja Turtles and he'd always get up. His yellow, footed pajamas flew fluff everywhere and he jumped from couch to couch, singing at the top of his shrilly, silly lungs: "Celebrate good times! Come on!" I, who was too mature for some things, rolled my eyes. Then we pretended that the brown carpet was hot lava.
My responsibility. I will wrap him up in winnie-the-pooh sheet and put him in a laundry basket. He always wanted to play with my dolls. I didn't want him to because it wasn't right for boys to play with Barbies. Mommy just told me that it was because he wanted to play with his big sister, he wanted to be included in everything she did. He loved me so much.
He told me very solumnly one day after rocking it on the swingset that he was going to marry me someday. I took his hand and kissed it and told him that it was against the law, but he promised we'd find a way anyway. Silly boys. We played dress-up. I pushed him on the swingset, my slender arms trembling as I tried to rocket him to the sky. My brother. My one and only little brother.
Not always. Do you remember when our sibling came along? We didn't want him following us so we shoved him in a closet and told him not to come out. He didn't even cry, much. whenever we'd exclude him, he'd promptly roll over and take a nap. Sometimes we didn't even notice. Especially not the time we got Monopoly money all over my parent's bedroom, smeared across the carpet in jagged, paper rainbows.
Baseball bats with walnuts. The shells got everywhere. I remember his wailing in the other room. We both got spanked at once. Not always, though. Usually I was the first. When they hauled us in for shots, I always got it first and was told not to cry. I had to be brave and take it so that my younger brother would know that it was okay. For him, I bit my lip. For him, I refused to cry a tear. Not until I was alone, anyway. It was my responsibility.
Alone. Maybe...maybe...maybe... He wanted to be with me always. And we were together, most of the time. We made num-chucks out of soda-straws and marshmallow men out of toothpicks. But there were days when I wearied of him hanging on to me, when I slammed the door in his face and leaned my back up against it so that I could play alone. The cars drove over the play mats the way I wanted them to, the blocks could be built in towers that he never knocked down, and I wouldn't have to explain the awkward story lines pumping through the tiny figures that danced at my command. He didn't understand rape but I did, even then. And the toy women would be hurt and trembling only to be rescued by a knight in shining armor who turned out to be not a knight at all, merely another villain trying to make girls do thing they didn't want to do. Things they couldn't quite remember afterwards. Maybe if I hadn't shut him out, maybe if I hadn't hid that part of myself maybe he'd trust me more today. Maybe he would have trusted me more before. Maybe things wouldn't have gotten this out of hand.
He doesn't like the color yellow anymore. What do you do when the boy who was everything to you, the boy who was your responsibility, loses the joy inside his eyes? What are you supposed to do when he comes to you with the blood running down his arm, telling you that he cut himself with eyes cold and never moving. He held the razor that cut along his own skin, crying that he didn't deserve to live.
Bae. Bae. They tell you he's not your problem. They tell you he's beyond your control. They tell you that you have to live your own life and let him live his, but how can you possibly do that when you were the one who held him up in the swimming pool, who gave him rides on your back when you were both learning how to swim? We called it the water taxi. I'd spin him so fast he'd inhale water bubbles and mommy would scold me but we'd do it again.
How do you go on when the one thing that mattered to you more than anything else in the world suddenly changes into something that you never thought it could be. And your friends are still laughing and your teddy bear still smiles but you look up into a Godless sky screaming inside because the pain is so much. You were responsible for him and you FAILED.
All I can think of on days like this, are yellow footed pajamas and words to a Denny's commercial: So bring your good times, and your laughter too... We gonna celebrate your party with you....
posted by Anonymous at 1:14 PM
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