Younger Picture

I knew by the voices if I turned around I would see two children living my life. Living my husband's life. The speech pattern was there, the sound of the older brother taking care of the younger. The unmistakeable accent of a little boy with special needs, whose brain knew what to say but the body didn't quite follow clearly. I would guess a sixth grader and maybe a 7 or 8 year old. Sprite was in their basket. "Is Sprite your favorite?" I asked. The older brother let me engage. He couldnt' ever understand it was a gift for me to speak to them. The younger brother is autistic and mostly blind, having to turn his head at an angle to see you and with aa lisp that, an outsider, thought was probably related to his autism. The little brother likes grape sprite. Grape sprite? Yes, he adds grape flavor to it. Out of school on break I would minutes later see their Dad was waiting for them outside to take them home. "We're going to Daddy's house" the little one said. I would minutes later stand by my vehicle to watch them drive away. The license tag was another county not far away, so I guessed perhaps a divorced home. Perhaps Dad gave them a few bucks to buy snacks before they head to his house. "I don't know what this is but he pushed the button and likes it," the older boy explained to the casher while I was taking my time picking up my bags. The lady in line in front of me had already stepped out of line to give them $5. An act similar to those my husband hated but would happen anyway. The meal picked up by a stranger who already left the restaurant. The man who bought my little boy an ice cream sundae. There stood a mirror image of my husband and my best friend, a younger version of myself and him. The brother being gentle, being kind, helping his brother to navigate social norms when I kneeled down to shake his hand, and stood up to shake the brothers. Imaginations and day dreams. I stopped at the cemetery that day and laid on the ground and cried. Cried. These days never end.