The Paper

Before the coffin was closed for the last time I put this aged washed out piece of paper in your pocket.

I never cried so much in my life. To see you gone like this, at the prime of your life, makes no sense at all. The long wait for that precious organ to become available came to an end and we were all hopeful that the transplant would save you and give you the quality of life that had been stolen from you during the previous years. You even drove yourself to the hospital and on that last trip no one was more optimistic than you. You were going to be 30 years old a few months later.

“Would you like to fight with us?” my evil neighbour asked you while he pushed you out of your bicycle into the ground. Before I knew it, two of them were fighting with you but as always you prevailed with just some minor scratches while the two other boys left crying. You were only 3 years older than me, but when you’re a child every single year counts.

The assignment was clear as it should be for an 8 year old. To write about your hero. On a new blank piece of paper I started writing: “My hero is my older cousin André.”

35256 - Joel Sousa