All--art--Accepted

One night, I come home to find my brother crying. “Why are you crying?” I demand, aghast. “Is something wrong?” He doesn’t look at me, just smiles and shakes his head. “No, nothing’s wrong.” But the tears keep coming and I’m only five years old, so it confuses me. “Are you sad?” I ask, a little naively, perhaps. That elicits a shaky laugh, but there is no humor in his eyes. I’ve always thought my brother has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, colored as if by ghosts, and it troubles me now that they are clouded with an ugly, strange shade of sorrow. But he