On a random Tuesday,

at 3:45 p.m., my brother texted me:

_Got hit by a truck. Nothing broken._

_At hospital. Call u later._

And when I went to visit him

an hour later,

my heart wrecked with worry,

he smiled and sort of shrugged

his shoulders.

This was his reaction whenever

anything bad or uncomfortable happened.

It annoyed me how stoic he was,

but then again, it made me happy

that things didn’t get to him

like they did me.

When Mom died, I spent the next

three months in bed,

wondering if she could have lived longer

if I had done anything differently.

My brother spent the next three

months watering plants

and eating sushi.

On his birthday,

he wrote himself a letter

and mailed it to heaven,

just to see how far it

could go. It came back

the next day.

I never saw him cry.

Not even when I was younger.

I used to think tears were

afraid of him. And I still

think that now.

Because even when he got

diagnosed with cancer,

he didn’t cry.

I was the one in the hospital

room with

tears streaming down my face,

hope falling out of my hands.

He picked it back up and handed it

to me. Said: _Life happens_. Then

promised that he would

always be here.

I see him in different places.

In the sky, when it’s a gray sort

of blue—the same color

as his eyes.

In my coffee, when it’s

a tan sort of brown—

the same color as his hair.

I see him in everything,

and I know he’s watching,

and I know that

he’s okay.