Brother

Pinned to the wall above my desk is a picture of my brother holding me the day I was born.

His precious toddler hands carefully grip my blanketed infant body as he looks down at my face and smiles.

He loved me from the get-go. So perhaps that's why I feel so guilty about his accident.

A sweltering August day combined with too much booze and a rope swing changed his life forever.

I often wonder what was going through my brother's mind as he slipped from that swing and plunged towards a wall of sharp rocks 10 feet below.

I wish I had been there to talk some sense into him.

What if I had convinced him not to swing into the lake while intoxicated?

What if I had convinced him not to go on that trip at all?

He would still have functioning legs, I know. He wouldn't be destined to live the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

I wake up every morning and see a nurse helping him out of bed and into the bathroom. I see the regret and shame and anger on his face everyday when he cannot play sports, or go fishing or make a quick trip to the store by himself.

I can tell my brother wonders how his life would be now if he had never attended that trip. So does our mom, so do his friends that never stop by anymore, and so do I.

As I lay in bed at night, the moon streams through my window and illuminates the picture of my brother.

He never smiles like that anymore and I wish I could fix his legs, fix him.

What if I had been with him that day?

Would he still have gotten on that swing?

Brother, asking what if has become ingrained in me.

What if it was me instead of you?