Dirt

She grew up visiting her brother every Saturday. Instead of cartoons, she watched the city pass by outside the car window. She followed her mother and father through the grass and sat on a bench not far from her brother's dirt.

Her parents talked to him, together and apart, but she didn't. She wasn't sure what to say. What kind of relationship could they have with six short years together? Most of what she remembered about him came from stories other people told.

Apparently, she had worshipped him when she was younger. She followed him around like a shadow. She wanted to be just like him and sought his approval before she did anything on her own. 

She didn't remember that, but she wanted to. She could imagine it, but that didn't seem like enough. 

She remembered sneaking into his room when he was on a Boy Scout trip. She pried a few legos from his skillfully crafted pirate ship. He'd never notice they were gone, but she would know. She would know something was missing.

When he didn't come home, she felt a lack of loss. She knew he was gone; her parents were sure to explain it carefully so she wouldn't misunderstand. But she didn't miss him the same way they did. She felt wrong for this, but didn't know how to make it right.

They cleaned his room over many months. They boxed up clothes, books, toys, and legos for charity. She kept the rogue pieces of the pirate ship in her jewelry box. 

That was something she could tell his dirt, she knew. Would he laugh? Would he be angry? Would he care? She couldn't imagine his reaction because she didn't know him, so she kept the pieces to herself.

294 words