Page 223 of Five Brothers

“You know,” he starts, “I was thinking of that time you took me to the Cocoa Beach Air Show.”

I remember. Sand. Clear day. Lawn chairs, kids with earmuffs, aviation geeks with their binoculars and coolers.

“Just you and me.” His voice softens, and I can tell he’s smiling. “I had wanted to go the year before, but Dad was just too busy. I know he tried, but it was what it was.”

Yeah. My parents had suitcases. Up in the attic, never used.

“We never got to go anywhere, and I just wanted to see it, because of the pictures I’d seen online,” he tells me. “I didn’t think it was real. Like planes and pilots and people who had adventures like that every day were something that only existed in movies. It was the first time I realized how big the world was. And what people can do.”

We don’t even use the suitcases now. We don’t go anywhere. They don’t even ask.

“Those planes flying in formation,” he goes on. “All the people in uniforms …”

I listen, still hearing the sounds of the jets whooshing past, slicing through the air.

“Everything in the Bay was draining, and that day was so fullof energy.” He pauses and then continues. “The music, the crowds … You probably don’t remember it, but I never forgot what a good day that was.”

It was. It was noise that wasn’t stress. It was distracting. I didn’t think about home all day. I remember noticing that on our way back home.

“It was a good day, more so because you smiled a lot,” he says. “I felt special. Like it was something we both shared, and I don’t know why that felt so important, but it did and it stuck with me. I remember thinking we’d be closer because of it.”

I close my eyes.

“I’ve had too much time to think in here already,” he says. “I forgot how I wanted to be one of those pilots someday. Be a hero. Do brave things.” He pauses. “They wouldn’t take me now, would they?”

A knife slices my heart.

He’s a felon now. The military doesn’t take you with a record.

He breathes hard, and I grip the phone, forgetting the drawer.

“You don’t realize how badly you wanted something,” he tells me, “until you find out that it’s no longer an option.”

I stare at my shoes.

“I’m sick of regret.

“Sick of just surviving,” he adds. “But I’m going to be a pilot. I don’t know how.” His tone is steady and resolute. “And I don’t care if you don’t support me, but every path has to be carved by someone, so I’m making a new one.”

Something stretches my throat.

“I’m not coming back to that house just to exist,” he states. “You understand?”

I smile, just a little.

If I’m not dead, then I’m not done.

I can do this.

If he can do this—keep going—so can I. It’s going to be over eventually. No one lives forever. I can do more before I go.

I can show my family that we keep standing back up. I’ve got another fight in me.

Drawing in a lungful of air, I rise off the bed and whip off my jacket. “I’m building you a new room,” I say. “If you’re not home on time, I’m painting it lavender.”

I hear a muffled chuckle. “Well … I also like peach.”

I smile. “Talk soon.”