"My Brother, My Hero" by Mariah C. Miranda

I woke up from a terrible nightmare. Lights were flashing, people screaming. I was standing there, numb. Big explosions were happening all around me. Suddenly bullets grabbed at my chest, making me give out a blood-curdling scream. That’s when I woke up.

Mom was shaking my shoulders, saying, “We are stopping for gas. Go to the bathroom.”

I mumbled to her sleepily. She walked to the gas pump and I got out and went in the gas station. I wish I didn’t bring my coat, I thought. We were on our way down to Mississippi, and it’s not that cold in the south in early October. The reason for our trip was because my brother was leaving for Iraq. When mom heard, she went ballistic. That was four months ago, and now he was leaving the next day.

“C’mon, go! We have to get there,” she snapped.

I went to the bathroom, paid for a bag of chips, and went outside. Mom had driven up to the entrance and was waiting for me. “Have a bad dream?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I replied, buckling my seat belt.

“Listen, we should be there by twelve, so we can see him in the morning,” mom said.

Yeah, whatever, I thought to myself. I could hardly wait to see my mom bawling over my brother before he left. NOT!

My brother is the one you would know–a comedian, talented jock, and popular because he was a friend to everyone. But only I really know him. He is a tall guy, very into the military. Basically, he’s your idea of who a soldier is.

Mom was driving on to the highway. I put my seat back and closed my eyes. I tried remembering what it was like when I first found out he was going. It’s kind of like a movie inside my head remembering everything. He was my hero when I was little girl, but he’d been gone to college for almost five years and I hardly saw him.

We didn’t get to see him before he left. My mom found out that his unit was delayed leaving a few days. She grabbed a bunch of things you could possibly need for a road trip and shouted at me to do the same.

“I don’t care if it’s twelve hours there,” she said. “All I want is for you to see him before he goes.”

I wasn’t sure how to react to it. I just did as I was told. My mind suddenly showed me sitting at my desk in English. I was staring into space. My teacher gave us homework and told us to write in our agendas. “This is freedom?” I thought. “To be overstuffed with homework?” We already have nine hours of school. Like being a turkey on Thanksgiving and being overcooked. But anyway, I would always get moments like that since I learned my brother was leaving. I’d think, “Is this worth dying for?” It didn’t make sense and still doesn’t.

When I told my friends my brother was going to Iraq, they were like, “Oh.” And, they just looked down at their PBJ sandwiches. I guess we’re all trying to avoid it, but I can’t. My brother was going. Then there are the kids who say stupid things like wanting to blow up terrorists when they grow up. It pisses me off. They don’t have the right to say that, after all, they did make the “F” honor roll.

Time must have passed because now we are pulling into one of those crappy Red Roof motels that allow pets so my dog Max can go with us. I crashed head-first into the pillows while mom flipped through channels on the TV.

I woke up again to my mom shaking me awake. “G’ morning,” she said, all excited.

“Mmmmm,” I mumbled.

“Get dressed. We are going–I finally got through to someone. They’re leaving within the hour.”

“Right or left?”

“Left on Jasper.”

“Then … then… ah…” I said.

“Then what!?” Mom snapped.

“Right on Flagstaff.”

“MOVE out of the way!” Mom yelled at a driver.

“Mom, you are acting so stressful.”

“Shut up.” So I did. She was not like this and I don’t like it. I took great care to fold up the map and then sat with my hands in my lap. Mom swore at a driver and slammed on the brakes. I jerked forward and was stopped by my seat belt. She finally turned into the entrance of the airport. She parked and we rushed inside. At the front desk Mom asked which plane his unit was on.

“You might want to hurry–they’re boarding right now,” the woman said.

I think if my P.E. teacher saw me then she just might put me on the track team. Mom was just as fast, especially for her age. We skidded to a stop at G10. A boy in a uniform was just closing the gate.

“Can we please see someone leaving on this plane?” my Mom asked, almost pleading.

“I am very sorry, Ma’am, but the plane is on a tight schedule. There can’t be any delays.”

Mom stomped her feet and let out a frustrated cry, like a mad horse. She then started to cry. I could see the boy was uncomfortable, and he didn’t know what to do, but follow his orders. Let him suffer, I thought.

I could feel months of painful tears at the tip of my eyes ready to fall. I slowly walked to the glass window. Men and women in uniforms were walking outside boarding the plane. My heart pounded. This is useless. I can’t figure out which one he is.

All of a sudden, a taller than 6 foot man turned around and saw me. And, I saw HIM! It was HIM! My brother. The one and only HIM. I started waving frantically and crying. He stopped in his tracks. He saluted me and waved. He turned back to his men as they continued up the ramp. He looked back. He blew me a kiss. I calmed down and leaned against the glass. It was cold, but I was warm with happiness. He walked up the steps to the plane door and stopped again to wave at me. I waved back. He was gone. I watched as the plane got in line and taxied down the runway. The plane then soared across the sky until I couldn’t see it anymore.

“Come back,” I whispered. “Come back.”

Mariah’s mother’s note:

Mariah’s creative writing story is not a true story, although she does draw from her own life experience. Her brother did just deploy to Iraq two weeks ago. We didn’t get to see him before he left and I did almost made a panicked, last minute twelve-hour drive to Mississippi to see him before his unit left. We did not do that, and so, Mariah’s creative story is really her heart-felt what she would have liked to have had happen, along with some of her day-to-day experiences as a thirteen year-old with a brother in Iraq.

Thank you.
Janel Martin-Miranda

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