what we can handleJuly 19, 2012
Last Saturday, we all gathered at my parents’ house to surprise my brother before his departure for basic military training in San Antonio. He got on the bus on Tuesday, and I can’t stop thinking about him.
I pause in the moment I’m in and think about what he is doing exactly then. How early he had to wake up today. How hot it is there (today, a high of 95. Saturday, 100). The many dusty miles he’ll have to run.
The image in my head of my little brother is of a boy who prefers to eat food that comes frozen, or pizza, or hot dogs. Who, until he was 10 or so, refused quick showers in favor of long soaks in the tub. One who comes up behind me when I am typing at the computer to put his hands on my shoulders, reassuring me. He is so good and so sweet, which is why I have a had time imagining superiors screaming in his face.
But who am I to say what he can and cannot handle based on what I know? I’ve never seen him do a push-up, and he is certainly able to. I know nothing of this experience and the part of him that will emerge to endure it.
Still, I can’t wait until it’s over.