Funny Green Outfit

    I'd always hated my brother for leaving. He never even told me why, and if he had, the memory had surely escaped my mind. It had always been Momma, Me, and Brandon. Brandon had been the best older brother a little girl could ask for. He never got "too cool" or "too old" to spend time with me and draw in little kids books or have fake conversations with stuffed animals that had all seemed real to my four-year-old brain. He had always complimented my art, and told me just how far my talent could take me. And the best part is- he never said it to just humor me. As much as I scoured his eyes, looking for any flicker of ingenuity, there was never any to be found. And when he believed in me, I believed in me.

    Brandon was a lot older than me, and could have moved out, but he never did. Not in a lazy stay-in-Momma's-basement-even-when-you're-grown-because-you-can't-support-yourself kind of way. No, not Brandon. Brandon stayed because he supported us. When it came to money, it was tough for both Momma and Brandon. But together, we all got along just fine. Brandon even said one time that in his line of work, "they give you a hundred dollars, then take back 99." I was not sure what kind of job asked a person to give back that much money, surely there was not such an occupation! Oh, but there was, and he gave something a lot more valuable than something as trivial as money. But I didn't know that then. I just knew that he left one day in a funny green outfit, and never came back. And when things went to hell, I blamed Brandon. I blamed Brandon for the hours I lost with Momma because she spent so much time crying in her dark room all alone. I blamed Brandon for all the empty bottles of no-no drinks that had been piling up on our countertops. I blamed Brandon for the way they made Momma talk funny and got her in trouble. And when Momma couldn't afford my colored pencil set for my seventh birthday, I blamed Brandon. Because if he hadn't abandoned us, I could have gotten them and drawn Momma a picture to make her feel better.

    How could someone that I thought I meant so much to just leave like that? I knew that it hurt Momma to even think about him, I never actually knew why he left. But what excuse or reason could possibly justify his actions of betrayal? What, oh what could be more important than caring for us and making sure we were all right?

Every time I saw my friend’s and their siblings fighting, I always felt a pang of envy. No matter how ugly the exchanged words between them got, no matter how heated the argument became, I couldn’t help it. As angry as I was with Brandon, I wished that was us. Because at least that would have meant that he didn’t leave. At least that would mean I could actually have a brother to fight with. 

I had long ago learned to turn my sadness into anger, and my anger into strength. But there were some nights I lay awake, with only the pale light of a midnight moon to witness my tears, my fight to be silent because it was my turn to be the strong one for Momma. I couldn’t be weak. I had to be strong. So it was only on those nights that I could finally let go what I had been bottling up, sometimes for months, sometimes for days, sometimes even years in between my cries. That distinct cry that feels as though your emotional scars physically hurt, where you want to scream but you can’t, so you put a fist in your mouth and you squeeze your eyes shut, just wishing that your feelings had an off button. But the fact of the matter is they don’t. Not for you, not for anyone, and certainly not for me, and no amount of wishing would change that. Nor would any amount of wishing bring my brother back and change the past.

    It wasn’t until a decade later, when I was fourteen, when Momma finally sobered up and we were getting ready to move, that I found out the truth. Whilst I looked through my old drawings, a yellowed photograph fell out. I picked it up and dusted it off, coughing as the age seeped into my lungs. Then I gasped. It was Brandon. And that funny green outfit? A uniform. My hands began to tremble, turning the photograph blurry. No, that was from tears. My tears which had been building up inside of me again, now saturating my eyes and escaping in waterfalls down my face. My years of pent up anger turned to sorrow and realization.

    “Honey?” My mother’s soft voice spoke from behind me. “What’s-” Her eyes landed on the photograph, and she went silent, her face pale.

    “He-he didn’t abandon us, did he?” I choked out, not trusting my voice. My mother’s eyes widened.

    “No, I would’ve talked to you a long time ago if I knew you thought that.” Her voice was steady, but I knew she was hurting too.

    “How did he-”

    “IED.” She said, and then we both burst into tears. We fell into each other’s arms, knowing we would never be at peace with what happened, but we could be grateful for my brother’s sacrifice. After all these years, my brother had never stopped caring for us. He gave his life to keep us safe, to keep everyone in this great country safe. I knew I would never lose my guilt for his death, for the anger I felt towards him, but I could start making it up to him by never taking one day in this country for granted. Knowing that when I go to school, it’s because of him that I even have that opportunity. Whenever I get food, it’s because he fought for it. And when I buy colored pencils and draw, it is all thanks to him. And for that, I owe him everything.