Permanence in Motion

Permanence in Motion

Clouds are funny. I mean, they seem to be in the midst of a bit of an identity crisis, right? If you want this one to be a turtle, then it's a turtle. If you change your mind and want it to be a steam engine, then it's a steam engine. They let everyone else project their opinions onto their identity. Though, I suppose there's peace in not quite knowing what you want to be or where you want to go.

Since I had reached a whole new level of absurdity assigning destinies to condensation in the sky, I decidedly turned over onto my stomach to face my book. The pages were easier to look at than the sky; they knew exactly what they wanted to say and where they were headed. No uncertainty, no flexibility, just facts. I admired their assuredness as I flipped the page, twirling my fingers in the grass.

"So this is where you've been hiding all day."

I started as a shadow fell over the page. Scrambling to sit up, I snapped the novel shut, losing my page in the process.

"Hey, Connor," I greeted coolly, running a hand through my mussed hair. Quite frankly, I had no idea how long I had been sprawling by the cove of pine trees in our backyard, but I knew it had been long enough for the elements to do a number on my previously hygienic state. Even as I attempted to discretely brush dirt off the front of my now grass-stained shirt, I mentally chastised myself. Only weeks ago I wouldn't have cared at all what my brother thought of my appearance, but ever since we entered the last dying weeks of August, he seemed changed.

"Whatcha been reading?" he asked, comfortably settling himself in the grass after teasingly mussing my hair even further. Apparently, that would never get old.

"Oh, just essays. Some Ayn Rand," I replied nonchalantly, tossing the book between my hands, not showing him the cover. "Not that I particularly agree with anything she says…"

"Mm," Connor nodded. I couldn't really be disappointed in his less than stimulating response; Connor had never really been into the same intellectual aspect of literature - or anything really - that I was. When we were in elementary school, Connor was seven and I was six, our mother decided to sign both of us up for park district tee-ball. Help develop our self-efficacy, learn team-building skills, brother-to-brother bonding and whatnot. While I spent the majority of our games on the bench, Connor blossomed into an excellent athlete: MVP at more games than anyone could count, idol of everyone else on the team. After his first season of tee-ball, he continued to bless even more teams with his marvelous athletic ability. From basketball to tennis to wrestling, he was the epitome of masculine physical prowess.

And I was a gifted ballet dancer. Of course. However, that ship sailed the moment I walked through the double doors of my middle school; after one day of taller, stronger boys jeering and asking if I would wear my tutu to school the next day I had had more than enough. Which is ludicrous, seeing as male ballet dancers are some of the strongest athletes in existence, are incredible artists, and, most importantly, do not wear tutus. But a self-conscious, friendless middle-schooler would never be able to assert that opinion. A self-conscious, friendless high school graduate still wouldn't be able to. Lovely to see just how much I've progressed.

Connor had always stood up for me when I was bullied. I did my best to hide it from him – I was only a year younger, I shouldn't need big brother to protect me anymore – but Connor just seemed to always know everything anyway. He told me to keep dancing. "Who gives a rat's ass what they think?" he exclaimed to an empty bus during an impassioned speech on our way home, "Do what you're good at, do what you want." If only I had the gall. I couldn't even look at him as he spoke; his face was too determined, too full of passion. It only made me wish I could be like him even more than I already did. And that would just be too much.

Yet, we grew. Connor was fantastic and admired by everyone around him, and I was almost positive that no one even knew my name. Connor was homecoming king with some beautiful girl who had probably slept with boys from every varsity team in the school, and I hadn't even held a girl's hand. Connor was everything I wanted to be, and I wasn't. But it had never affected our relationship. We were brothers, best friends. The world of high school was so meaningless that it couldn't even touch us. Nothing could touch us.

And then the rest of the world got in the way.

I heard Connor exhale slowly before leaning back into the grass, reaching his hands back behind his head and closing his eyes. My hands clenched more tightly around my book.

"So," he breathed, eyes still closed. I waited. "Next week."

Suddenly, the ground beneath me tilted nauseatingly. The sticky late afternoon air refused to move into my lungs. "Yep," I agreed. Not that there was anything to argue about. I'd try convincing time to slow down before trying to get Connor to change his mind.

He opened his eyes. I knew he was looking directly at me because I felt him see right through me.

"Ethan…"

"What?" I snapped.

He flinched, taken aback at my aggression. I can recall only one other instance in which I had addressed Connor so angrily. After our first baseball game, when Connor was titled MVP and I had dropped every ball thrown to me, I hid behind the field and cried while the rest of the team gathered around Connor with their ice cream and adoring praise. They were disappointed when their MVP excused himself to go find their missing teammate. Connor found me sniveling behind the field, mourning the premature death of my tee-ball career.

"Don't worry about it," he said wiping my face, "I thought you played great. Mom thought you played great. And you can keep working and get better."

In a split-second, I had Connor pinned on his back to the ground and was punching every inch of him my six-year-old fists could reach. I could barely even see as I continued to sob, beating my perfect brother as hard as I could. And the thing is, Connor didn't even fight back. He hardly tried to protect himself. He just put his hands over his face and took all of my blows. Exhausted, and suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, I jumped off of him and ran back to the shelter of pine trees behind the field. Burying my face into my knees, I listened to Connor get up from the ground and brush himself off. Instead of heading back to his friends, however, he came approached me again. This time, I didn't move as he put his arm around me.

"I'm sorry," I hiccupped, wiping my eyes across my sleeve.

"It's okay," he replied. When I turned to look at his face, another wave of guilt washed up from my stomach and caught in my throat. Despite my small stature and tiny fists, I had managed to noticeably bruise his face and neck. Blood trickled from his eyebrow and his cheeks were beginning to swell. Despite the miserable state that I, his own brother, had put him in, he smiled kindly down at me.

"I was just scared," I managed to blubber. "You're so good, and everyone likes you. I was scared that they would take you away from me. They'll take you somewhere I can't come with 'cause I'm not as good as you are."

"It's okay," he repeated. "You're my brother and no one can change that." He stopped to make sure I was looking at him. "I'm always going to be here for you. I promise."

But his face was different now.

"You promised," I seethed.

"Ethan, It's not going to be forever…"

"Godammit, Connor…"

"It's not!" he insisted.

"You don't know that." I spoke through my teeth, staring intently at the book in my hands.

For the first time in my life, Connor had nothing to say. Because he knew it was true, but would swallow a full tube of toothpaste before he ever admitted it. He sighed, resigned.

"It's something I need to do. You know that,"

I did, but I adamantly refused to acknowledge it. As long as I did that, I could fool myself into believing that Connor was just being cruel and selfish. It was easier that way; much less painful.

"Ethan," he said, finally sitting up. "Look at me."

I did, dragging my eyes up from where they had been planted on the book in my hands. The sincerity in his face was sobering, without even a hint of his smile. He wasn't here to comfort me anymore.

"Even if I…don't come back…"

Stop.

"I wouldn't break my promise." He laughed. "You have so much potential, Ethan. You have so much ahead of you and you don't even see it. I wasn't smart enough to go to college. You are. You can go for the both of us, build an amazing life for yourself for the both of us. You're going to have a house and money and a family and a life that I can't have."

Connor spoke again before I could even open my mouth to protest.

"I'm not as perfect as you think I am. You're worth more than you think you are."

Utterly unable to respond, I sat still and absorbed his words. After the longest silent minutes of my life, Connor stood.

"Well, I have to go. We're driving out to the coast for the weekend, probably leaving after dinner."

Any and all words failed me. So Connor left. There was still an indent in the grass where he had been reclining.

I turned onto my back to analyze the clouds again. They were still there, perpetually in the August sky, yet constantly shifting with the wind. Eternally transforming, permanently in motion.