Catching Leukemia

Catching leukemia

I stroked the worn out edge of it with my thumb, holding it in my hand memories flooding though me. It belongs to me brother Sterling— or at least belonged.

He got it for his birthday. Mom wanted to take us out to some fancy restaurant and then let Sterling pick out his own gift. He didn’t eat anything; but he ran to the shop absolutely giddy. He came back with the mitt in his hand, eyes glimmering.

I remember talking about it with him after his game, asking why he kept writing those poems onto it. He set the mitt down and looked at me like he couldn’t believe I had to ask. But instead of answering my question he just smiled that toothy smile of his and ran his fingers through his scarlet hair before turning back to the glove.

This just about drove me crazy. Not Sterling avoiding the question, but him running his fingers through his mane, as if he needed to draw even more attention to the thing being as bright as it already was. I had told him this before, but he still did it, and not just every once in a while, but all the time!

He paused looking lost in thought thinking of the next poem to write down. While he thought I gave him a quick up-down; he looked weaker than before, the circles under his eyes more prominent than ever and even though he was smiling he looked as feeble and unhappy as I’d ever seen him. Then suddenly I remembered a quote, “How about ‘every spectacular incident of evil will be balanced by 10,000 acts of kindness?” I asked. Sterling closed his eyes thinking it over, perhaps, before quickly reopening them, pausing to stare at me, “Are you sure you’re not the smart one in the family?” he joked causing me to roll my eyes and scoff, though I was secretly pleased, at the same time trying to think of a good comeback, but before I got the chance Sterling picked up his mitt again.

That was the last time I spoke to Sterling before his leukemia got him, alone, in the dead silence of the night.

He never officially gave me custody of the mitt, but that horrible night when I ran to my room, hoping when sunrise came he’d be back in his room re-reading the poems, there it was, sitting on my bed. I must’ve read those poems more than a hundred times before managing to go to sleep that night, tossing and turning, even in my sleep, wishing Sterling there with me.

Now with the mitt warm in my hand, I knew he would always be with me, even if it was just by the memory of him running his hand through his hair, holding the same glove that I held now, that night.