The Things a Brother Knows

“I know I should be happy. I should feel relieved. Lucky. We are lucky. So incredibly lucky. I know that. I know there are mothers everywhere, all over this country, all over this world, who would give anything to trade places with me. Who would love the chance to cry because they’re worried about their sons. There are mothers lost in the wilds of their own grief, who miss the days of worrying. I know. I know worrying is far better than grieving. But, God help me, sometimes I don’t know the difference. I can’t separate the grief from the worry.”

“We’ll figure this out,” she says.
I know this is just Pearl saying one of those things friends say. And I know it doesn’t really mean anything. And I know Pearl always does this in the moments when there really isn’t anything else to do. But still.
I’m glad to hear her say it.

What kind of mishugas

What’s our ETD?” he asks

“No, Mom. My brother is home holed up in his room. He won’t do anything. Or say anything. Or go anywhere. He won’t ride in a car. Did you know that? He doesn’t need to be worshipped by people who don’t know him or understand him. He needs help.”

Why all those maps? What are you planning? Where are you going? Or are you just dreaming, like I am, of someplace else?

I never got any sort of a chance to make up my own mind about this war.
I’ve just become a character, we all have, in a story we don’t get to write ourselves.

We sit like that. In silence awhile, but not an uncomfortable silence like the kind at my dinner table. There’s no such thing as uncomfortable when it comes to Pearl.