Every Breath You Take

49

A few days later, a loud sputter echoed outside of my house and I burst out laughing, knowing that the sound meant my dad and brother's return from whatever errands they'd been running.

Dad needed a new truck, badly, but he would not give up that old car of his. His truck was a dump! A total dump and dad hated it whenever I called his truck that, but it was true! His car sputtered, squeaked, moaned, and groaned! I mean any odd sound you could possibly come up with, dad's car did.

I didn't bother peeking out the window either because right now, laying on my bedroom floor with my arms bent behind my head, my eyes were focused on four all-glass frames that hung in two-by-two rows, a dark black metal border encompassing all the glass and contents inside the frames.

Not even a second later, the front door opened and I could hear the scuffle of feet on our wooden floors in the entrance hall and the soft whispering of my brother as he kicked off his shoes.

"Hey, kiddo, we're back!" Dad called up the stairs at me. "Where are you?"

I pushed up from the floor and sat criss-cross on the ground, my hands resting in my lap as I gazed at the frames, "Hey, dad! I'm in my room."

"Alright, I'll be in the living room if you need me."

Nodding to myself more than anything, I decided that I liked exactly where the glass frames were. My giant window was right beside this wall and the light seemed to pour in through my window and illuminate the pressed flowers encased in the glass frames. There was something unique about the way the natural light touched the age of the flowers, gently caressing the fading colors of the petals and stems, capturing the crinkles and withering state of all of them. Yet, the light seemed to point out everything beautiful and youthful about flowers that had been dead, pressed, and folded away in a scrapbook for years.

At first, I wasn't sure why I'd even decided to finally bring out those flowers from their handkerchief in mom's old scrapbook, I mean, I'd barely even looked at the scrapbook, keeping it stowed away under my bed to collect dust for years... But, after a while of just laying here and staring at them in their newly purchased frames, I knew it had to do with the words my brother and I had said to each other just a few days ago on our front porch.

There was something different between us now. It was hard to describe it in words but for the past few days, I think the best scenario to describe the relationship between my brother and me these past years, was to say that the two of us had been constantly walking on glass. I walked cautiously, tip-toeing, dodging any path where I wound myself. But Aiden? I don't think he had quite cared where his foot landed, just as long as he reached me...

But now, after what had happened the other day, it didn't quite feel that way anymore. There was something lighter between us. Something light in my heart and I think his words, my words, had given me something, strength maybe, to feel like I could tell Aiden what I felt. And I know I couldn't tell him everything just yet, but hope was every person's beacon and every villain's downfall. The hope I felt from what Aiden and I had done a few days ago was more than enough to make me feel like I had taken a step, not a cautious one, but one that braved the wounds.

It made me hopeful for the future. For myself.

And I think Aiden and I's talk made me want to keep seeking that familiar feeling of hope too, which was why four new frames hung on my wall. In a way that was so much bigger than just me, universal in some terms, those flowers had kept me pieced together in the darkest hours of my life.

It was so odd and explaining it was even harder because how could something that lives than dies, something that should've reminded me of mom's death and the life-death cycle of every person, possibly give me so much hope?