Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Thirty-Four - Ezra

Tonight, as I try to find sleep, I think of my family. First, of Mom. I try to remember the way she was before she got sick. Happy. Full of life. She always knew what to say whenever I was having a hard time. Like when I started middle school. I didn't know anyone. And all the kids there seemed not to know I existed. One day, when I was eleven, I came home in tears because a group of kids pushed me out of my seat at one of the tables. And I'll never forget what she told me as I sat on the edge of my bed, crying into my hands.

"Ezra," she said, "you're the most special boy I know. You're thoughtful, you're kind, and you're sensitive. You are so, so talented. Your future is bright. And one day, the right people will see that. The people that you're meant for, they'll see how bright you really are. So, don't be too sad if these kids don't see you yet. Just keep shining and don't give anyone the power to make you stop."

Those words carried me through high school. But after she died, it's like the lights went out and ever since I've been struggling to find the switch to turn them back on.

Then, I think of Dad. I picture him – strong – at Mom's bedside when she was sick. And I picture him – strong – at her funeral. And again at her memorial. And again that first Sunday back at church. And again the last time we said goodbye, when I left for college. And again every time since. I can't fathom how he carried the weight of all that and never once did he falter. I wish I was even half the man he was. I wish I was even half as strong.

And I think of Liam. My little brother; a pain in my neck and still the best friend I ever had. He and I have always been polar opposites. I took after Dad, with blond hair and green eyes just like him; Liam took after Mom with dark brown-almost-black hair and hazel eyes. I'm broad-shouldered and muscular while Liam is leaner. I loved sports. Liam wasn't so much a fan as a participator. I was always the outspoken one and Liam was always quieter, but he had a better time making friends than I did. The one thing that we had in common, though, was our art – my painting, his music. Now, I've failed at that too.

We had fun together, though. Being eight years older, I always felt responsible for him. But our world was cruel. How could I protect him from all of it? From the grief and the hurt and the betrayal and the angry expectations of churchgoers who forget that their pastor is human too. And they have needs and battles too. We're not invincible. As strong as Mom and Dad were, as fiercely as they faced everything that was thrown their way, as patiently as Liam and I endured the long, hard nights and the empty church services, we're not invincible.

People left the church under a cloud of lies and betrayal. People we once considered friends. People we once trusted, depended upon.

Then, Mom got sick and died.

Dad hasn't been the same since.

Liam, already quiet, barely talked to me at all.

And I left. I couldn't do it anymore, so I left it all behind. And no matter how hard I tried, I fell apart too.

We're not invincible.