His Brother

Since August -- when we first heard the news -- I've tried very hard to put it out of my mind-- determined to follow Joseph's lead.

"Mom," he'd say, "I'm just not gonna think about it until I have to."


This week, he had to.

"It's not fair! It's just not fair!" Joseph cries, tears streaming down his cheeks. "This is worse than getting diabetes!

"I know, Bud... I know... "

That's all I can say, over and over.

Because I'm crying too.

"Why does he have to leave? WHY?! I wish it were anybody else but him. ANYBODY!"

"Me too, Honey... me, too."

I hold him tight -- standing in the middle of the kitchen, his head buried in my shoulder -- overwhelmed by the magnitude of the loss my son is about to experience.

That little boy with the brilliant red hair and freckles who means so very much to all of us-- who, for seven years, has lived across the street, two doors down.

The boy we met on the very day we moved in.

Zachary was only 2 1/2 back then-- and for a whole year I couldn't understand a word he said.

But it was obvious from the beginning that he worshiped Joseph-- and that that feeling was mutual.

In fact, within months of our arrival, when I made the mistake of referring to Zachary as Joseph's "friend," my son was quick to correct me.

"No, Mom-- he's my brother."

I'll never forget how Zachary beamed at these words.

And how from then on, they were inseparable.








Zack has slept at our house countless times over the years-- and has come over to play almost daily.

And whenever it was time for him to go home, he'd always leave things behind.

A special new hat, a sweatshirt, action figures, his Nintendo DS...

As if this were his second home.



And really, it was.

When Joseph was diagnosed with diabetes, Zachary was devastated.


At only six-years-old, he learned about it all right along with Joseph.


I never saw him drink regular soda again.

And just last week...



.... when the boys came in from building their snow fort because Joseph felt low, Zack (as usual) loaded the test strip while Joseph washed his hands.

Then, as Joseph was about to prick his finger, Zack put a hand on his and said:

"Dude, your hands are all wet-- go dry them off first."

Damn it! Why does he have to go?

Last night, Zachary came by with his mom and two sisters. We'd planned one last sleepover for the boys before he and his family leave Friday morning for their new home.

Over 400 miles away.

"Oh, Sandra-- I'm so sorry, but it's just too much," his mom tells me the moment they walk in. "We've got other people to see before we leave. I just can't let him do a sleepover tonight."

I look over at Joseph and Zachary-- neither makes a sound in protest, but their red-rimmed eyes say it all.

"Are you sure we can't do this?" I ask, not wanting to put more pressure on this woman-- but suddenly realizing that she might not fully understand what this means to these boys.

"I'm sorry."

So we exchange Christmas gifts while the boys quietly make their way upstairs-- to Joseph's room.

Ten minutes later, I head up to tell them it's time.

Standing in the doorway, I look at the two boys sitting on the edge of Joseph's bed.

My son is crying-- while Zack just sits there open-mouthed, looking miserable.

I settle down between them, putting my arms around their shoulders.

"It's gonna be all right. You guys are gonna talk on the phone all the time. And we'll come visit, and you'll come back to visit, too."

Looking up, face drenched with tears, Joseph says quietly:

"It's not the same."

I rub his back, and then pull both boys in close-- no longer able to hold back my own tears.

"Zachary," I say, my voice catching, "you are like my other son... I love you... and I'm gonna miss you very much."

Then we all just hold onto each other.

A few minutes later, he's gone.

"What am I gonna do?" Joseph asks me.

"Honey, I know that no one will ever replace Zachary, but you've got a lot of other friends and- "

"I know, Mom. But they're not like him. We... we can just be together. We can be bored-- and it's okay. Because then we always find something, anything to do."



"I don't know what I'm gonna do without him."



"Mom, he's my little brother."