Adams Glove

     The air had hung thick with dust, as I lay on the cool garage floor. My body had been wet, partly from sweating, but mostly from all the tears I had lost. I had had the glove close to my chest, trying to bring him back. The small boy, with the big blue eyes, and his dirty blond hair he used to have, on the hospital bed. His eyes had been sad, and his face had been pale, but a brave smile had been spread across his face. I remembered the day very well. I thought about what had happened that morning. The small boy, the sad eyes, the pale skin, the white beds, the white walls, the doctors clad in white. The baseball mitt on his chest. 

     Tears had rolled down my cheeks, as my heart ached for him. My heart ached for one more smile. One more laugh. One more baseball game together. One more joke. One more sparkle in his eyes. 

     My knuckles turned white as I squeezed the glove tighter and tighter to my chest. 

     Tears streamed down my cheeks faster and faster as I remembered that morning. I remembered the little boy. The boy. Small and innocent. Innocent. Hooked up to all sorts of machines. The hospital - quiet, except for the slow even beeping of the machine monitoring his heart beat. I remembered the sudden silence. Then my mother screaming. My father rushing over to my brother. I remembered the doctors rushing in. I remembered Adams small hand in mine. I remembered tears in DB’s eyes. I remembered the words. Sad but clear. 

     ¨I’m sorry.¨ the doctor says. ¨He passed¨

      I don’t remember much more. I remember crying. I remember screaming. I remember a car ride. I remember the tension that had risen inside me, finally bursting out. I remember a short argument with my parents, and then the garage door closing, and me locking myself in. I remember some more screaming, and then not much more. Then I remember blood. Lots and lots of blood. Gushing from the wounds in my hand. I remember the dent in the garage door, the glass from the windows shattering to the floor, just like my hand. I remember the blackness creeping up from behind me, and then falling and hitting the floor. 

     Then I remembered waking up. The mitt on my chest. My hand shattered, but my heart shattered even more. I remember feeling like the world has collapsed, leaving only you standing. Like not a moment elapsed. Like I've been torn apart. I remember tears. More tears, and then another window shattering to the floor, and more blood flowing off my hand. I remember the pain, shooting threw my body, reaching my heart. 

     My heart shatters more and more with every breath I take. 

     I clutch the glove to my chest. I get all weak in my limbs when I slowly sneak a peak at the worn brown glove. The green ink he had worn off a little, but you could still clearly read the quotes he had printed onto the glove, with a smooth, quick hand writing. My favorite one was one he had made up himself:

Enjoy when you can, endure when you have to.

He had written. A new set of tears welled in my eyes as I read it. A faint whimper escaped my lips as I sobbed into my ruff hands. I was so sick of being tough. I was so sick of being the strong one. I punched the garage door one more time. Hard. Blood trickled down my arm, and reached the floor. It hurt. It hurt badly. But it felt good. The pain reminded me, that he was really gone. It reminded me, that I was now alone. I would have to go threw life without my smart, amazing and caring brother.