The room still smells of laughter,
though the bed lies empty.
The stuffed animals wait for him,
fairy tales remain open,
as if they were ready to continue
at any moment.
He was my brother,
small as a ray of sunlight,
fragile as the flame of a candle.
One day we ran laughing through the hallway,
the next, that hallway became
a tunnel of shadows.
I remember his voice calling me,
his barefoot steps at midnight,
the arguments over who would win first
in the simplest game in the world.
Now the hallways echo hollow,
and my name has lost its echo.
I ask Mom if he will return,
she hugs me but does not answer.
Dad looks at the floor,
as though words are too heavy to carry.
The walls of the house are listening,
but no one dares to speak the truth.
I hide among the toys,
I whisper softly to them,
I tell them not to worry,
that one day he will come back.
But I know I’m lying,
and my hands tremble as they touch
the little car that will never be his again.
Laughter left with him,
and I was left to learn far too soon
what it means to lose.
Now I only play with his memory,
and every victory hurts,
because there is no one left
willing to lose against me.