As You Can Imagine

I recently found out that I am someone else’s imaginary friend. As you can imagine, this was a bit of a shock to me.

For me, it all began one rainy afternoon, when Charles wasn’t allowed to play outside. This should have been the first sign I suppose. The only children who still want to play outside are the imagining types – the ones prone to thinking up people like me. Any other kid wouldn’t have even noticed it was raining unless it made the power go out. But Charles was a boy of an older kind of cut. He didn’t need much to be entertained, because he brought all the adventure with him wherever he went. Why, with him, I have seen an ordinary doctor’s office become the crow’s nest of the largest and most frightening pirate ship you have ever seen, only to transmogrify into the very desert island our ship had struck, complete with thousands of miles of thick, Caribbean jungle.

One of my fondest memories that we shared was digging for dinosaur bones in the Sahara desert. Past bottle caps and pieces of Solo cups, we dug and dug, bent on finding the bones of the mighty T-Rex. At one point, we stopped and wiped the sweat from our foreheads, parched from the heat and sand. It was just then that our assistant, Mom, came out to the dig site with a glass of ice cold water. Charles was thrilled, but immediately asked why she brought only one, when I had been working just as hard as he had, and was certainly just as thirsty. Mom was usually a meticulously careful person, and not prone to such oversights. But she made quick work, and soon enough, another glass of water (though not as cold as the first, I noticed) was procured.

We sat there, drinking in the rewards of our labor, when, with one last trowel turn, Charles uncovered the greatest find in our professional careers. Our assistant was quickly called to verify the find, which she classified as the bone of a “Stick-a-saurus.” Though neither of us were familiar with this particular classification, she assured us that it was a highly sought after artifact, and that she was sure there was a museum that would be interested in purchasing such a rare bone. In fact, after splitting the commission for the find, we each went home with a hefty twenty-five cents each – a sum that any professional archaeologist would have been proud to have, we were told.

But now, after all these years, it has become clear that I am nothing more than his imaginary friend. And you might think that this would disappoint or upset me. After all, I never existed. I am just the product of the imagination of a child. Some people might be upset if they realized that they don’t exist, but not for me at all.

You see, I was with him through every high seas adventure, every leap over the tallest building, and every fight with every henchman. I always had his back and came through when all hope seemed lost. I was thought of in his moments of greatest joy and greatest pain. There was no grounding severe enough to put us in separate rooms. When there were no other friends around, I was still there.

I was the cohort, the adventurer, and the best friend of someone in need, and this is something that is not true of many people, despite all their “realness.” At the end of the day, I have the greatest honor that can be bestowed on any creature – real or otherwise. I was seen as a hero in the mind of a child. And I wouldn’t trade that for all the Stick-a-sauraus bones in the world.

Salvation

This one is a bit longer, but is a creative short story I've written.


"Salvation"

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 “The usual?” 

Eyes down, I nod and push the bills across the counter. 

“Is that it for you sweety?  Sure I can’t get you anything else?”

“What?”

“Anything else for you this time?”

“Um…no.”  My eyes jump back and forth, not wanting to look at her—for her sake.  They dart back down to the counter. Back to safety.   

My corner seat is occupied by an old man with more grey hair than God.  He is reading a newspaper, so I force myself to glance around the room and find another chair.  I settle in an unfamiliar seat, closer than I wanted to be, but my laptop screen is a welcomed distraction.  I plug in my ear buds and the music of Frédéric Chopin flows up and covers the background noise. Just when I am just relaxing my shoulders and breathing deeply, I catch a motion on the edge of my view.  Before I can stop myself, I see a woman walking up to the door.  Unaware.  Happy to be so.  I shut my eyes quickly and squeeze the lids tightly so she won’t see the sneer written on me—I try to focus on nothing.  Turning the volume up, the wash of the music runs up and over my brain.  I close my eyes so that I, in ignorance, can let her walk past.  She swishes past my seat, unaware.  I open my eyes, hoping, wishing it is gone.  It never is.  Above her head is an illuminated sign.  Above everyone’s head is an illuminated sign.  I shouldn’t have looked up.  I know better than that.

 A police officer walks by the window from my right, one hand on his belt, the other shielding the sun from his eyes.  Over his head the same sign hangs—as wide as his shoulders, only a few inches above his head and neon words recounting things I wish I could un-see.  I shield my eyes from him and look back at my laptop, not wanting to know any more.  Focus!  On anything else, focus.  I pushed the ear buds further into my canals and they fire small bursts of pain, threatening to break through into the core of my mind.  If they did, at least it would go away.  I wish that just for one whole day I could let my eyes rest.  Let my mind rest.  When I first started seeing the signs, I read them all.  And why wouldn’t I?  Knowledge is power and mine was great.  A god in my mind, but a god with bones and blood—cracks in my hull.  Too much cargo for not enough ship, I sank to the oceans floor, held down by the knowledge of evil, gasping for a single bubble of air. 

The café is full now—fuller still for me.  Regrets.  Sins.  Failures.  Mistakes.  Darkness locked away inside their hearts so deep, even they acted like they were not there.  They’re all scattered around the room, crowding my senses.  It seems I can smell, even taste it all.  The putrid odor wafts around my head, threatening the thin walls of my skull.  I can hear the heavy pounding of judgment echo in this small room.  When I breathe through my mouth I can taste it—through my nose I can smell it—on my skin I can feel it—so heavy in the air I wade through it.  The overwhelming nausea makes me want to be alone again.  When I am alone, locked in my room, it is quieter, but still there.  Looming at the cracks of the door, the florescent light seeming to seep up through the floorboards like smoke.  I prefer it dark and quiet, but today is Tuesday, so I am here.  Tuesday is my day to breathe.

At that moment, within the chaos I have never grown accustomed to, I hear a stillness.  My eyes are closed, resting, and I can feel a soft, cool breath of wind pass across my face.  The air seems less thick and the smell subsides for one glorious moment.  Fresh.  Air.  My brow unknots itself and I suck in the fleeting wave of air.  I flutter my eyes open and look around the café.  She’s here earlier than usual--the girl, no more than 25.  She has a plain face, nothing remarkable that anyone else would see.  Anyone else.  Nothing remarkable, except that bubble of air.  I start in my seat, almost knocking my laptop to the ground.  Every Tuesday afternoon I wait for that bubble of air.  The only bubble I’ve ever found.  Her face does not sit under the sick fluorescent light.  Her face knows sunlight well and soaks it like a flower.  Above her head hangs no judgment.  I have watched her, envied her, hated her and wondered at her freedom.  Every week for the past nine months she has lunch with the same companion.  Six days I hold my breath.  One day I breathe.  Six.  Then one.  Glorious.  Breath. 

She is tall, for a girl, and has dark brown hair, straight and long and pulled into a ponytail.  It’s almost always in a ponytail.  She is wearing her blue blouse today, though I usually prefer the brown one—it matches her eyes and brings out her dark arms, long and slender.  As mine was, her normal seat is occupied—why is the café so full today?  I pull out my notebook, slouch down in my chair, continuing my notes.  “The Clean One arrived first, again” I scribble.  “She usually arrives first, but she is a little early today.”  As she waits, she reads.  She always reads while she waits for The Other.  Ten minutes go by and I keep making additions to my notebook.  Her companion arrives.  She is not so tall as The Clean One, and hair darker than coal.  She is usually late, but today she walks in quickly and sits down across from The Clean One.  They both meet here, every week, one hour.  Our tables are closer than usual, but above the hum of the general babble, I can’t make out their words.  

The notes I’ve taken are meticulous, but I feel they are still incomplete and missing some grand revelation.  Like a scientist observing a creature’s eating habits, I note everything.  The sounds around me turn to background clatter--the feature presentation is beginning, and I have the only seat in the house.  Her face is like a crack of daylight that pierces the catacombs I wander through.  The darkness in the room bends in midair and is drawn into oblivion.   

Until today I’ve seen them, exchanging smiles and nods and gestures.  They always read, pointing to parts of the book and interjecting, flipping through it like recipe cards.  Their conversation is muffled, like an argument you can hear through a wall, but their faces never made me think they were angry at each other.  She always has such patience with The Other.  She seems to be teaching her something, but as an equal.  She has a certain look of humility, calm and caring.  I scribble notes and channel all my attention towards the pair discussing and reading only two tables away from me.  “Today, they are more passionate.  The Clean One speaks, The Other interrupts with a hand gesture like a lawyer, The Clean One retorts.”  

I sit there, eyes flicking up and down, from my notebook to their faces and back down again to my notes.  They carry on like this for the next ten minutes and my hand gets cramped from writing. 

“Their behavior is peculiar today.  Earlier, they seemed to be wrestling with each other with their words, but now they are calm and quiet.  Both their heads are down and they seem to be talking, but I can hear nothing.  The Other has her head on the table she is convulsing, quietly and rhythmically, almost like she’s cr—“

My mouth slipped open and the scream came from the core of my stomach—my eyebrows seemed to come unhinged from my face—my eyes, so wide they might have fallen out, but were held in by sheer friction.  The entire café is frozen and stares in abhorrent shock.  The scream was slipping out of my throat and into the open air.  My ears understood what my mouth was doing before my brain did.  It lasted longer than a breath should have—much longer.  Both girls looked at me.  One.  Long.  Pause.  My ears, hot and heavy, resound the pounding of my heart.  I have no moisture to swallow.  The edges of my eyes pulse white with the increased pressure in my face.  The girl who was unclean sat there, mouth open and face flush.  The fluorescent sign, the gallows that loomed above her head was wiped away in one instant.  In one dramatic pass of some cosmic hand, it has been thrown into oblivion.  Where her sick glow was, I can see the open, clean air.  The darkness in the room is bent inwards towards them both now, and they seem to give off more than double the radiance.  The two, now Clean Ones sit, staring at me, horrified.  The moment that seemed to last an hour, that rushed to its climax in just one sick second, was over as quickly as it began. 

“My God!  What is wrong with you?!” 

It was the old man who was occupying my usual table.  His face was contorted into a bulldog’s anger and he seemed to shake back and forth as he breathed his heavy gasps of air.  He slammed one hand on his chest in a theatrical gesture.

“Son, you gave me a start!  What the Hell was that?!” 

“I…I’m not…sure.” 

The engine of my being is stalling and sputtering for something to fuel it, something of substance to feed off.  I have no answer.  I can’t even form the question.  As I turn back towards the two Clean Ones, I say aloud

“But I need to know too.”

Poetry Time

These are two short poems I have written.

"Pawn"

To my flanks are those like me,

first to fight and first blood shed.

Uniformed we stand together.

Behind me skills I can’t imagine,

moves and slides beyond my grasp.

Bound we trod, our pattern set,

my brothers follow, strength in numbers.

Death to those who rush ahead.

“Stay by me!” I shout in protest,

the hand controls the fate of all.

I see the danger, cry aloud,

god has stopped his ears this time.

I can’t fall back, the turn is done.

Omniscience sees a bigger plan,

he justifies the end and means.

And next:

"Peace-Made Man"

Silent night,

The air was still

The fog suspended mid-air.

Thirty-forth battalion crept

Along the edge of target.

Sergeant Lane

Determined quickly

Tonight would see the bloodshed,

Of some unholy target

Hiding in a foxhole.

Sights are raised,

Target seen,

Crouching in the distance.

Steady hand will find the bull,

The eye of villain target.

Through the fog,

And through the sights,

Sergeant sees the target.

Writing down the thoughts in mind,

No doubt, the pain of bloodshed.

Quickly falls

Determined valor,

A writer’s heart can see another.

Pain is equal on both sides.

Target is a man it seems.

War will make

A warrior-man,

But only peace can make a man.

Why destroy the peace-made man,

To make the man who targets man?

The Anatomy of Color

The Anatomy of Color

“Today?  Today, I am a pirate, Walter!  And there’s not one thing you can do about it!” 

With a bath towel hanging lengthwise around his neck and a broom handle sticking out in sword-like fashion from his belt, Sigmund waved his hands in exaggerated motions, mischievously drawing his weapon from its sheath and stabbing the absent foes surrounding him.  Eyebrows raised so high they might have leaped off of his face and into his curly blonde hair.  With wild, frantic leaps, around the brightly lit room his thin figure looked more comical than threatening.  His hair bounced and flopped with each bound and twist and excessive gesture he made.   

Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, the corner of his mouth slid upwards in amiable amusement.  With bright eyes he watched his brother leap around the room defending his marauding vessel from imaginary attack. 

“A pirate huh?  Why would I want to stop that?  That’s a great idea, Sigmund.  Just a great one!  And what will your pirate name be?  You know you need to have a clever pirate name!”

“I think I shall be Captain…Captain…”

The sunlight was shooting through the window panes like golden spears stuck in the ground.  Sigmund fell in a dizzy on the floor and was becoming preoccupied with the rays on the ground that now pierced his hands and face.  Running his arms along the angled axis of the sun, delight filling his eyes.  The room was bright now, as somewhere outside the clouds found themselves pushed along on their way.  Sigmund sighed a long, exaggerated gasp, rocked back and lay facing the ceiling.  Closing his eyes he smiled.

“I can see colors, Walter.  So many colors I can’t even tell you.  Should I paint them

Walter?  I don’t know if I can, but I would try.  Do you want me to?”

On the far end of the house the doorbell was being rung and Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood up straight and reached for the handle of Sigmund’s open door.

“I would love to see you try.  Go get your paints while I get the door.  You need to promise me that you will not make a mess while I am gone, alright Sig?”

“As you wish Brother!  But I will paint you such a masterpiece, you might fall over in shock!”

“Yes, I just might at that!”

Smiling, Sam (for that was actually Walter’s name) shut the door and made his way down the hallway and down the stairs towards the front of the house.  The large double doors stood twelve feet high and the thick mahogany made the doorbell reverberate in the large foyer.  The door opened and a middle-aged brunette stood in the sunlight, holding a piece of paper and a black portfolio open in her hand.  Behind her, a black SUV sat in the large gravel driveway.  She stood for a moment, looked Sam over in one sweeping glance and jotted down a note in her book.  Sam’s young, slender frame was not an imposing sight. 

“Good afternoon.  You are Sam Rhodes, yes?” she said, in a flat business tone without eye contact.  “I am Ruth Meadows from the Department of Children and Families.  You were told to expect us?”

“I was, yes.  Won’t you come in, Ms. Meadows?  Sig is painting in his room right now.  Do you want to speak to him now?”

“All in good time,” she said as she walked into the sunlit foyer, her high heels making a harsh knocking sound on the tile floor. 

“I have some paperwork to fill out and a few questions before we get too far along.  You have been taking care of Sigmund since your mother and father’s accident?”

“That’s right,” Sam replied and looked at his shoes.

“By yourself?”  Her tone lent itself to disbelief and suspicion rather than admiration or respect.  “Eighteen-year-old brothers do not often choose to take sole custody of their special needs siblings.”

“He’s my brother,” Sam stated more as defense than explanation.  “He also has special needs, but first he’s my brother.”

A moment of silence ensued as they both looked at each other – only broken when Ruth resumed scribbling in her notebook, which was still cradled in her arm. 

“I understand that finances will not be a problem, considering your parent’s estate was considerably large?  Do you have a financial advisor to…oversee…that…you…”

“To make sure I don’t spend it all in one place?” Sam quipped.

“I suppose you could say that.” 

“Yes, my Uncle David.”

“I see…”  More scribbling.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Ms. Meadows checked boxes and jotted down notes in her file.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, suddenly remembering that he was a host, “would you like something to drink?  I have water, juice, soda…”

Ms. Meadow’s eyes slowly raised and narrowed at Sam.

Knowing her suspicion, Sam answered “No, there’s no alcohol.  I’m eighteen, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” she said as she went back to her notes.  “Some tea would be nice.”

Sam started to head for the kitchen to boil some water for the tea.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly.  “That’s…very considerate of you.”

Sam smiled and left the room.  Ms. Meadows found a chair in the foyer and continued her notes.  A few moments passed in silent writing, when from the hallway she could hear someone humming and singing quietly.  She stood, closed her portfolio and walked cautiously down the wooden hallway.  At the doorway she stopped and listened for the music to continue.  She quietly opened the door and the rays of sunlight caught her off guard.  In the far corner of the room, a blonde haired figure was bent sideways, staring at a canvas.  A bath towel was in a pile on the floor next to him.  His entire torso was cocked to the side while one hand jaggedly slung paint on the cloth.  She stood in the doorway and tilted her head to the side along with the painter.  The color wheel, with bursts of designs and swirls seemed to played tricks with her mind.  The extremities with the tails and waves decorating the circular center appeared to move and sway.  They seemed to wave at her and change color under the yellow sunlight.  An optical illusion like she had never seen.  Mesmerized, Ruth straightened up and slowly made her way to the back side of the couch and leaned forward on her arms, cautious not to make a sound.  It was a hologram.  On the canvas were layers of colors that danced with depth in her mind.  There were only a dozen or so colors the child was working with, but the layers and motions and force of the patterns gave dimension and colors, more colors than her mind could take in.  Her thoughts were interrupted by a single sound.

“Hello.”

The word was so casual and melodic; it hardly brought her out of the trance at all.  It was when she realized that the painter had not turned around or sounded startled that she saw it as an anomaly.  She smiled.

“How did you know I was here?  I hardly made a sound.”

She took a deep breath.  Now realizing it was the first real breath she had taken since she entered the room.  She felt as if she had just taken a nap in the sun, and was awakened by a pleasant aroma.  As she breathed, she could almost smell the flower that had woken her up.

“I saw it was different in here.  I can see it you know.  Most people can just talk about it or feel it, but I can see it.  Walter says it’s special, but I don’t see how.  It’s just what I see.”

He never stopped his movements at the canvas, fixed on his task, but willing to engage as a courtesy to Ruth.  At this point, he slowly turned around and studied her face quizzically.  His eyebrows narrowed and eyes zeroed into lasers.

“Can you see it?”

“See what?”

At this, his face shrugged and he whipped back to his painting, tilted sideways again and continued.

“Neither can Walter.  But he loves when I talk about it.  I don’t see why though.  It’s as plain as daylight.”

“What does it look like?”

He said nothing for a moment as his hand made two more marks with the brush.  He straightened up and took a step back. 

“Like this.”

Ruth stared at the hologram Sigmund had painted and tilted her head in confusion.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?”

Startled, she straightened up and snapped her head to see Sam standing next to her with a cup of tea steaming in his hand.

“I’m sorry, the door—“ she stammered.

“You wanted to meet Sigmund?  You’ve met him.  I see you’re both getting along.”  Sam handed the cup to Ms. Meadows and smiled at Sigmund.

“She likes my painting, Walter!  Do you?  Do you like it?”

“Oh Sig!” Sam bounded around the couch to get a closer look and tilted his head to the side.  “This one is amazing!  I think I like this one the best.  I still have no idea how you do that!”

He stared at it for a few moments more and Sigmund gave Ruth a wide smile, bursting with joy and pride.

“Run and put it with the others Sig.  You are amazing!”

Sigmund made his way over and gathered the easel and canvas in his arms and took them across the room to an oversized filing cabinet. 

“I’m sorry” Ruth said; as she flipped open her files again. “Is your name Sam or Walter?  My files have you down as…”

“It’s Sam…legally.”

“Then why does Sigmund call you Walter?”

Sam put his hands in his pockets and sat down on the back of the couch and smiled. 

“If you have a question about why Sig does something, I guess you should ask him, huh?”

There was a moment of silence as Ruth pondered.  She walked over to Sigmund and knelt down.

“Sigmund, why do you call Sam, Walter?”

He set the canvas in one of the drawers and upon hearing her question burst out:

“Because it’s his name!”

Ruth jumped at the sudden volume that he produced and quickly looked back at Sam.  He was chuckling under his breath, hands still in his pockets, relaxed and casual.  Sigmund continued like a flight attendant giving instructions.

“Everything has energies and they all have colors and his colors are a Walter, not a Sam.  I can see the energies in colors, but no one else can because they are stupid!  Why do you even like the name Sam?” he shot at his brother.  “It’s not your name!  It’s terrible and it doesn’t even match anything.  You can’t see anything.  I can see it plain as day.”

There was a moment of silence and then Sam burst out into laughter, filling the room with his bellowing noise.  Ruth was next, and then Sigmund.  It was contagious.  As the mirth subsided and tears were wiped away from corners of eyes, Ruth asked, through the tail of a laugh,

“What about me?  Is my name Ruth?”

“Your name?  Your name is…is…”

He smiled and looked around, up in the air and in every corner of the room.  He fixed his eyes on the top part of the window and said,

“There!  There is your name!”

Ruth looked up and saw only the top of the window, sunlight still pouring through.   Sigmund grunted.

“You can’t even see it, can you?”

“No Sig, I can’t.  What does it look like?”

“I will paint it for you.”  

Midnight Drive

A short story:

The wind was colder than he thought it would be. The lights came on when he opened the car door, and he was caught off guard by how quickly the cold penetrated through his jacket. Clumsily, he closed the door and zipped up his jacket to his neck, even though it was a short walk to vending machines. He had only been driving for an hour or so, but at 1:00am, with the heater on full blast, he was starting to fight with sleep and this was the first rest stop he saw. Pete stared vacantly at the options in front of him. Typically, he would never go to a vending machine to buy water, but he knew he needed to this time. $1.25 and he didn’t have a quarter, so he inserted two single bills and retrieved his change. He glanced around at the other machines, wondering how far 75 cents would go. Gum. Spearmint. 50 cents. That would have to do. He put the last quarter in his coat pocket and fumbled for the keys again. He wanted to see a friendly face, so he could remark on the peculiarly cold weather this week, but friendly faces are rare that late at night. What is it about faces that look friendly or not? He concluded it was something in the eyes and turned back up the heat. He struggled with the gum package, his fingers too cold to do anything intelligent and ended up opening it from the bottom. No matter. At least it was open. All he had to do was stay awake for another hour and he would be home free. This mid-week trip home was more business than pleasure. His car needed some work done on it and honest mechanics are hard to find. Besides, two hours isn’t so bad, especially when he had been meaning to get back home for some time anyway.

5 miles down the interstate, a woman was driving the opposite direction. The headlights she saw were distorted as she tried to wipe the tears from her bloodshot eyes. The only time she had been yelled at like that was when she was a child. Why did he have to say those things? It was like he could see into her heart and knew what things would hurt the most. As waves of emotions swept over her, again and again, she tried to keep strong. She didn’t know why she felt she had to be strong; there was no one who would hear her cry. Maybe she had to be strong for herself; as if she could fool the one person who knew her. She didn’t know where she was driving to, she just needed to get away. Why did he have to drink so much? She never understood the impulse to drink. As a semi passed her in the left lane, the tall headlights illuminated a fresh bruise on her left temple. The lights hurt her eyes.

Pete drove another 3 miles, feeling more awake now. Between the cold water and the gum, he had jump-started his brain back into cutting-edge clarity. Nothing good was on the radio this late at night, so he chose silence over negative sound. Besides, he could think better when there were no sounds around him. He looked at the cars passing him in the other lane, noting the different states they were from, wondering about each of their stories, why they were on this road, who they were going to see. Pete liked people watching. He liked imagining what kind of people they all were. He wondered what the situations were that made each person who they are. He squinted his eyes to keep his night vision. He hated it when people left their brights on. He avoided looking directly at the light and flashed his lights to remind the forgetful driver to be more courteous. The driver got the message and returned their lights to normal. Pete tried to recover his train of thought, but it was gone.

She was just two exits from where she started, but she could feel the oppressive darkness right behind her head. As if everything that was behind her was everything she had known. Samantha hated everything she had known. Why couldn’t she just keep driving? Why not drive until she ran out of money and make a new life there? She caught her breath at the thought. She was standing on the threshold of freedom and all she had to do was keep going.
She felt the dark cloud of that evening’s events slowly lifting like a mist. Up ahead she saw freedom. In her rear-view mirror she saw darkness. She felt like an animal, wriggling free from a trap and running for the safety of anything else. He would never be able to find her, even if he wanted to; though she was pretty sure he would not. Why had it taken her so long to even want to break free from all of this? Tonight was the last straw. One by one, she disconnected the emotional strings that attached her to everything behind her. As each one flew off like elastic and disappeared into the darkness behind her, she felt one step closer to freedom. Her breathing quickened as releasing the strings came easier and easier. Finally, a fresh idea had come. Something wholly different that anything she had done before. She would leave and she would never look back. This was the greatest moment of freedom she had ever felt! She had two-thirds of a tank of gas and thirty-eight dollars in her purse. With those two, combining forces with her new sense of adventure, she would start a new life wherever she happened to land. As she sighed in satisfaction for the excitement ahead of her, something caught her attention out of the left corner of her eye. Someone had flashed their brights at her. Of course, she flipped her brights off and settled in for the adventure she had just given birth to.

My Brother Joshua

This is a paper I wrote for an English assignment. Our assignment was to write a profile of a person in our life who has had a great impact on us. So as a practice in allegory, I profiled Jesus as my big brother, and called him Joshua.

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My Brother Joshua

My brother Joshua is a man worth profiling. He is my oldest brother by adoption and my best friend. I first met him when I was very young, but finally decided to be adopted by his family in the spring of 2006. Joshua is not hard to like. If anyone really gets to know him, they will find him the most faithful of brothers. He and I became very fast friends and it’s not hard to see why. He has a passion for helping others. This is what first drew me to him. People that are despised, he loves. People who are outcast he takes in. He loves everything America despises. America loves the beautiful, the whole and the strong. Joshua loves the unattractive, the broken and the weak.

I will never forget the day I finally made the decision to be adopted. It was mid-May and was about to turn sixteen. I was working in my yard when Joshua stopped by. He and I talked while I worked.

“Hey Stephen”

I smiled because whenever he says, “Hey Peter” like that, I know he is going to teach me something worth knowing. I always enjoy it when he chooses to teach me something. He is very wise and very patient. He loves to teach in ways that, at first, confuse me. Generally he will say something that seems simple, but as soon as I apply it to my life, I find it’s harder than it appeared.

“Hey Stephen” he said. “You’ve got one day to live.”

I paused. His odd statement puzzled me. I have one day to live? Did he know something about my health that I didn’t? Why did he say that? I like to try to figure out what he means on my own, but this time I had to ask.

“What are you talking about?”

He smiled. He knew he had piqued my curiosity.

“Look at it this way,” he started. “Yesterday is gone. You can’t change yesterday anymore than you can change the first day of time. It’s completely lost; only found in your memories.”

He gave me a second for it to sink in, and continued.

“And who has guaranteed you tomorrow? What rule is written that says you will have another day? Yesterday only exists in your memories, and tomorrow only exists in your plans. The only time you truly have, is the brief moment we call today. You only have one day to live.”

The second time he said it, the phrase made more sense. I did only have one day to live. This was Joshua’s way of saying “our offer of adoption still stands. What do you say? You want to be my brother?”


Over the next few days I talked to my guardians and Joshua’s dad and decided that it was the right thing to do. Joshua is now my oldest brother, but he is not my only sibling. I was adopted into a large family. A few of my new siblings fight far too much. This is the one drawback to my new home. They disagree on a lot of little things. But the one thing that we all agree on is that we really like Joshua. We all love him and try to let our love be the thing that keeps us together. It’s no secret that we almost idolize him. Some say we idolize him too much and others say we don’t idolize him enough. Still, he’s everything that we want to be. We just have a hard time agreeing on other things. But Joshua is always patient and always kind. He never lets our bickering get to him. He is the living example of what love and strength is.

Joshua is by far my best friend. No one knows me nearly as well as he does. But friends don’t become best friends just because of the good times they’ve shared together. Usually, they become best friends because of the hard and difficult times they’ve shared. Joshua has always been there when I needed him. He always hurts with those who are hurt. But even in the hard times, he’s trying to teach me something. Once, after a very painful breakup, he taught me one of the most helpful lessons I have ever learned. We went for a long walk and spent several minutes in silence. Then he said,

“Hey Stephen”,

in that special way again. But I couldn’t find the courage to smile this time. He continued,

“Gold is put into a fire for a very important reason.”

Again he gave me a moment to let it sink in.

“When gold is put into the fire, it melts until its liquid. Then the impurities rise to the surface and are scraped away. Gold cannot be purified unless it is put through a fire. This is why we suffer – to be made strong and pure. Don’t ever run away from hard times. In every fire you go through, there is a lesson. Look for it. If you don’t look, you may miss the jewel that’s only found in the ashes.”

As he was still speaking, I already knew that it was true. I was a little ashamed of myself for being so easily distracted. I assured him that I would be looking for the lesson.

Joshua has this strength and love because of our dad. He and my new father are exactly the same. If anyone wanted to get to know my dad, they should get to know Joshua. He does what he sees our dad doing. He opens our door to anyone who knocks on it, and helps anyone who asks. He and his dad decided that they would not force me into being adopted and they gave me the final decision in the matter. All they did was offer. The choice was mine. There are many reasons why I chose what I did. But all of the little reasons pale in comparison to the one factor of Joshua.

Some people wanted to know more about the actual person my brother is. In this profile, I’ve only told what I know first-hand about him. There are other books written about him, if anyone wants to know about the man himself. You see, Joshua is a Hebrew name. When it is translated into Greek, it’s Jesus. Joshua is Jesus Christ. This entire essay is an allegory. It has a truth deeper than the literal meanings of the words. But my adoption is a real as night and day, black and white, and heaven and hell. When I was adopted as a member into the family of God, Jesus became my older brother. We both share the same father, and my earthy parents became only my guardians. Other Christians are now my brothers and sisters. And it’s true; they do fight far too much.

It’s hard to describe someone who means as much to me as Joshua does. In all honesty, I owe everything I have and everything I am to him. No one person has ever had as much impact on my life as Joshua has. Needless to say, my brother is the man I hope to become. Through him I have grown and become wiser. He is my hero, my mentor, and my friend. No one would do badly if they tried to be more like him.