Of A Man

I have a photo of a man who I barely know. It has been sitting on the burgundy wooden dresser in my room for a long time. I took a picture with him when I was younger. We were at a zoo, standing in front of the lions. The lions were sleeping, lounging lazily in the background. It was bright outside, and I can see every detail of that picture.
The man was tall; he was about a good two feet taller than me. He wore dark jeans that were frayed a bit around the bottom and were faded on the knees. He wore black Nike shoes that had the laces partially undone on the right shoe. His shirt was a dark navy blue with some white writing that I’ve never been able to read. Over that he wore a dark grey jacket that had a folded down collar and silver buttons along with a zipper. He had pale skin, like he hadn’t gone outside much. He had short black hair that was ruffled by a slight breeze. His eyes were bright and happy but I can still see a hint of sadness in them. He had heterochromia, with one eye deep sapphire blue and the other a brilliant emerald green. He stood close to me, his hand holding my little one, making him slump to the left a bit in order to do so.
I was on his left and looked about six or seven years old. I was (and still am) a blonde and I have rich brown eyes. I was wearing a light turquoise blue sundress that was strapless but had a string around the neck to hold it up. I wore little white sandals on my feet, and my nails were painted the same color as my dress. I remember I had picked out my outfit that day and was so proud. The little me clutched onto the guy’s hand tightly, reaching as far as she could to keep her grip. We were both smiling very happily.
He was my half-brother, and that was the only time I ever met him.
My mother had married his father, and so they had him together. Later on, because of… complications… my mother divorced his father and married Dad. We’ve been living together, mom, dad, and I, ever since I can remember.
My mom is a woman of average height and build (She won’t tell me her height, or her weight, or her age…) with blonde hair and dark blue eyes. She can be hot headed and serious but is always kind. She is a difficult person to get into an argument with, and she is very passionate about her job as a lawyer. Because of this, she often has work, but she always makes time for me and my dad.
My dad…well, he’s the funny one. He is an author, or at least he’s striving to be. He stays at home, unless he needs to go out for research for his book. He usually takes me along with him, and it is very interesting and lots of fun. He is tall and has dark brown hair that shines red in the sun.  He also has dark brown eyes. I love both my parents greatly.
I am seventeen and have my mother’s hair and my father’s eyes. I am a junior in high school and have no idea what I want to do with my life. However, I think I might want to become a doctor because of  my half-brother. I found out what happened to him during the summer of my last year of middle school.
I will never forget that day.
It was August 9th, and the day was warm but had a cool breeze that came with the promise of fall. I was just coming home from school. As I walked up the concrete driveway to the house, I saw that my mom was home. Strange, I thought. She’s never home this early. Brightened by the prospect of going out to dinner, I quickly jogged up to the door. However, when I opened it, I was greeted with the sounds of poorly suppressed sobbing coming from the living room. I set my backpack on the floor and snuck around the corner to the living room, completely unnerved. Upon entering the living room, I was shocked.
Sitting on the soft leather couch, curled up against my father, was my mother. She was a complete mess, her hair askew and her work suit unkempt. She was huddled with my father, her face crushed against his shoulder. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Her face was wet with tear stains, aside from the few tears that were still streaming down her face. Her shoulders were wracking with silent sobs. My father was holding her, one hand supporting her and the other softly stroking her hair. He was making gentle shushing noises to her.
I was stunned. I had never seen my mother cry before, and here she was, sitting before me as a total wreck.
My father finally noticed me and flinched. When he looked at me, I could see that he too had been crying, for he had a slight redness around his eyes as well, but it was not as noticeable. He obviously had not been crying as hard as or for as long as my mother. However, I could see that he had a very deep sadness I him. I could see that it hurt him as much to see my mother in such a state as it did me. He stopped stroking my mother’s hair and she looked up at him. Then she saw him staring at me and fresh tears pooled in her eyes all over again.
My father took a deep breath.
“Sit down,” He sighed. “We need to talk.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, nervously taking the seat across from them.
“You know that I was not your mother’s first husband. You also know that she had a son with him – you met him once.”
I nodded, hesitant. What is this leading up to? I thought.
But deep down, I think I already knew.
“You also know that he was sick, which is why you didn’t see him much; however we still checked in on him every once and a while,” He continued. “He was born four months prematurely, which caused his lungs to be underdeveloped. The doctors did everything they could to help him, but he still ended up with a condition called Pulmonary Heart Disease. You know how the heart and lungs work together to pump oxygen through the heart and throughout the body? Well, this condition cracks this path and makes it unstable. The pressure in the blood vessels increase to the point where they start to burst. The heart then works harder in order to support the lungs, and the heart gets enlarged. You can only work so hard before things start to break down. You can’t go running at full speed forever.”
My father paused, and then took a deep breath. “Just this last week, his condition took a turn for the worst. He…” My father glanced at my mother, then back at me. “He passed away at three fifteen today.” Upon hearing his words my mother let out a long, quiet wail and began to sob uncontrollably on my father’s shoulder. When she breathed it came out as hyperventilation. He hugged her tightly and began to stroke her hair again in order to try her calm her down.
The room was quiet for a while as me and my dad listened to my mom’s frantic crying. Soon she calmed down and slumped into my father, her eyes fluttering shut.
The clock chimed, signaling that it was six-thirty. I knew I should be hungry but I was too stunned. I felt empty and hollow inside. I didn’t feel the need to eat, and I knew that no one else was feeling hungry either.
That’s why I was surprised when my dad said, “Do you want dinner?”
I opened my mouth to say no but he signaled me to come into the kitchen. He slowly stood up and carefully leaned my mom onto the couch, her head resting on a pillow. He began quietly walking into the kitchen, and I stood up to follow him.
When we got there, my dad walked over to the red kettle. He picked it up, filled it with water from the nearby sink, and put it on to boil. Suddenly, he slumped over the counter and heaved a long sigh, his head in his hands. I just stood a few steps behind him, unable to say a word. We stayed like that for a few moments as we listened to the kettle heat up and begin to boil. When the kettle began its shrieking whistle, his head snapped up and he quickly shut it off, the whistle dying in the air. Then he just stood there for a while, holding the kettle on the counter with his head down.
He lifted his head and turned around to face me.
“Can you hand me those mugs?” He said, his voice a bit raspy.
I grabbed the mugs he was pointing to. They were our mugs, the ones we use on cold winter evenings, where they’d be filled with hot chocolate, or on sweltering summer days, when they’d be filled with a scoop of ice cream. They were the mugs that my parents would drink coffee out of when they weren’t in a rush for work, when we could sit down as a family and all eat breakfast together. My dad’s mug was a large, round green mug with a faded tan diamond pattern around it, a black handle, and a cream colored inside. There was a chip on the rim from when I dropped it once. I was so upset but my dad just laughed it off and said there was no harm done. He even glued it back on, but it fell off over time. My mom’s mug was a tall red mug with black birds flying around the middle, a black handle, and a small picture of a cardinal on the white inside. I bought it for her for Christmas many years ago, after her old one had broken, and she’s used it ever since. My mug was a slim white mug with cat ears on the rim and two green eyes on the outside, along with three lines for whiskers along both sides and a black triangle nose in the middle. My parents bought it for me when I was small and I loved it. I set the mugs on the counter and my dad brought some tea.
As he poured it, I couldn’t help but wonder about what life was like for my poor half-brother. He probably never got to drink tea with his family or go outside. He never would have experienced tumbling down a grassy hill or jumping into a pile of autumn leaves or smelling the flowers in the spring or getting into a snowball fight. He never would have had friends or had his first kiss or went to school. He probably had no plans for the future because he was always so focused on making it through to another day. My dad said he was living, but it sounded more like surviving.
My dad held my mug out to me, but I couldn’t take it. He set the mug back on the counter behind him. He took a deep breath and sighed.
Suddenly he said, “You don’t have to go to the funeral if you don’t want to.”
“What?” I said, as my eyes snapped up to meet his.
“I’m going with your mother to pay my respects and help her through this, but you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I understand if you don’t want to. You don’t know this boy; you’ve hardly ever met him–”
“I’m going,” I said, holding his gaze with a determined stare.
He smiled. “You’re just like your mother, stubborn and kind.” I stuck my tongue out at him, tears in my eyes. Then I sniffed and stared bawling.
He wrapped me up into a tight hug. After I settled down, we took our teas and went back into the living room.
                                           _______________
It was an open casket. I wore a short sleeved black dress that stopped just above my knees. I also had in some diamond stud earrings and wore a black headband with my hair half up half down. My shoes were black flats. My dad wore a black suit with a dark purple tie. My mom wore a lacey black t shirt with a long black pencil skirt and some heels. Her hair was back in a bun and she had long since cried off her makeup. There were flowers everywhere: roses and lilies and colorful bunches of daises, graciously donated by family members and hospital staff and friends. There were family that I knew and family that I didn’t know. They all came to pay their respects and offer their condolences. I also met my mom’s first husband. He wore a black suit with a sapphire colored tie. He had black hair and had some stubble. He had green eyes that were red from crying and had a pale but slightly tan complexion. When I hugged him, he whispered that I was brave. He also said I look just like my mother. My dad was awkward around him, and I learned that they were friends in high school, but went their separate ways in college. My mom hugged him and cried once again. He also shed a few tears in her embrace.
As I walked up to the casket, I looked at him for the first time in many years. He looked peaceful and serene, but also unnaturally pale. His black hair was arranged neatly around his face and his hands were folded on his chest. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and a turquoise blue tie – the same color as my dress that day.
His appearance reminded me of that day at the zoo. We had gone to look at the lions and were having a lot of fun. He then asked me if I wanted to take a picture with him, as a reminder. I agreed and we found a lady to take our picture with the digital camera we had. At the end of the day, he took the camera and pressed it into my hand.
“Keep it,” he said gently. “So you’ll never forget me. It will be proof that I lived.”
I didn’t understand what he meant, but I took it. However, I didn’t want to leave him empty-handed. I pondered on what to do as we approached the gate.
As we were about to step out, inspiration struck. I let go of his hand, screaming “Wait here!” and took off into the souvenir shop. I ran around the store until I spotted it: a small golden colored stuffed lion with a fluffy red mane. I purchased it using what little money I had, though I think the cashier spared me a few cents. As I exited the shop, I ran into him. He was breathing heavily, and I was puzzled because it was only a short distance and I was in there a long time.
“Emma!” He exclaimed running up to me. He stopped in front of me and hunched over, hands on his knees, panting. “W…What…are you…doing?”
“Here!” I thrust out the lion to him; its little fuzzy head flopped over to the side. “It’s for you!”
He looked up and dropped down onto one knee to get eye level with me. He took the lion from my hands and hugged me tightly.
“Thank you,” he said. “I will cherish it forever.”

As I came back to reality, I could feel tears streaming down my face. Where’s the lion? I wondered. He has to have the lion. Where is it, Where is it, Where is it? I didn’t realize I was shouting until my father grabbed me. I looked around and realized everyone was staring at me. Embarrassed and emotional, I apologized and went in the back room until it was time to go.
The funeral passed by without any event. Prayers were said, condolences were given, and as we watched the casket lower into the ground, tears were shed.
                                     _________________
Later that week, my mother’s first husband, Henry, sent me the stuffed lion. He went looking for it after the incident at the funeral. He said that my half-brother always kept it and had left it on the bed the day he died. He said that there was a note on it that was addressed to me. I took the lion and opened the letter carefully. It read:
Dear Emma,
Do you remember that day at the zoo? I do. I still have that lion after all this time! I’m passing him on to you. You probably don’t remember this, but that day I told you to keep the camera in order to have the photo to remember me; in order to keep my memory alive. But I know better now.
The memories of others keep me alive. I live on in them.
Thank you for keeping me alive.
Sincerely yours eternally,
Kerian
On my wooden dresser, in a white frame, is a picture of me and my half-brother at the zoo. Tucked into the frame, behind the picture is a letter addressed to me. And leaning up against that picture is a golden stuffed lion.