It was a bright summer’s day during August in the small neighborhood of Revere Street. I was upstairs in my room listening to music as I heard a commotion going on down stairs. Being my eight year old nosy self, I decided to see what was happening. I flew down the stairs and into the kitchen only to see my brother as white as a ghost while my mother rushed to put ice on his hand. I kept asking what was wrong but everyone was so wrapped up in what they were doing that it was like I wasn’t even there. That’s what I most remember of that day, the rushing, there never seemed to be a moment where everyone just calmed down and took a break from what they were doing.

It wasn’t until later that day that I found out what had actually happened to my brother, it was not even as big a deal as I thought, but by the way everyone was acting he might as well of been dying right there on the spot. It turns out my brother was with my father playing a game of catch outside in the front yard. While playing, the football ended up hitting my brother’s hand the wrong way and he obviously, hurt it. I finally pulled this information out of my mother while we were sitting in the hospital waiting room. I distinctly remember sitting in this big white room absolutely terrified. Just the fact that I was surrounded by sick/ injured people and big florescent lights scared me back then.

Combing my young age and short attention span waiting for my brother, Robby to come out of the little room the doctor took him into seemed to take ages. But, after 3 x-rays and 2 hours later the doctor came out of the room. After a long, dull speech he finally got to the point, he said Robby broke his hand. Not that bad right? Only a broken hand, he would be fine, right? Wrong. The doctor put a cast on Robby’s hand and we left. The next few weeks to follow were terrible. I couldn’t have imaged all the extra work I would have to do just because Robby broke his hand. Being smaller, I didn’t understand why he just couldn’t do it. It frustrated me to no end. I wanted to go outside and play but instead I had to stay inside and take care of my older brother. I had to do all of his chores, help him pick things up; make sure that he didn’t take of his sling, and anything else he needed. I was so angry about this at one point that I almost considered breaking my own hand so I didn’t have to do his work anymore!

Looking back at it now I realize that the little bit of extra work I had to do really wasn’t all that bad. And making sure he was ok was just something I had to do, it was my job. This whole experience helped me think about family and what it really meant. Because of this, I know now that your family is the people who are there for you no matter what. If you hurt, they hurt, if you cry, they cry and vice versa. Even though I hated doing his work, after a while I knew that I had too. He was my family and that means that I had to take care of him and look out for him no matter what. He was my brother, and that means I’m forced to love him even if I can’t stand him sometimes. Family is an important thing, and I’ll never take my family for granted ever again.