It hurts when I walk past little kids; especially the little boys. Around three years of age, short dirty-blonde hair, big, round blue eyes. I look at them and see him; the sweet angelic face I might never see again. I miss this little boy, who would make me watch his ridiculous kiddie movies with him. Or who would chase me around the living room with his little bat, giggling his perfect giggle, his blue eyes shining and laughing with him. I miss when he would crawl up in my lap when she wasn't home, or if he was just tired. I miss the way he said "love you" and "good-night-night". I miss the way he would ask me to sit with him at night when everyone was gone. I miss his giggle, i miss his laugh. I miss that little boy that would cheer me up, and for one second, would make me forget about every little trouble I had. Because for that one second, all I focused on was him. How to make him happy. How to make him smile, or giggle. I miss how he made me spin him until my head hurt, and even then, I couldn't say no to his perfect little face. His cute little nose, his rosy, plump cheeks. I miss how he asked for juice and everything else. And i can't help but remember his face tha last time I saw him; torn. Afraid. Hurt. I can't help but to think that I let him down. My little brother, whom I told I would always be there for; always protect when mommy got scary. I would never leave him. But am I there for him now? No. Can I hold him and tell him how everything is alright? No. Can I wipe his little tears from his adorable face? No.
I miss the little boy whose giggle filled the room. Or whose eyes went deeper than color, even at three.
Most of all, I miss my little brother.