I was sitting in class one day working on handwriting, which basically consisted of us copying down letters from an overhead projector for an hour while our teacher read a book and drank coffee, when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Despite the fact that I was so interested in this monotonous practice of forming the English language, not, I managed to pull myself away from it long enough to see my dad pacing casually in front of the door to our classroom. Naturally my ever-questioning self, I called out "Dad?"
To this he turned around and responded, " Hi Elizabeth, lets get out of here" He did his sly smile mixed with a flick of his neck. I knew why he was was there though, my mother had spent the last nine months pregnant with her fifth (yes fifth!) child. This however wasn’t too bad for me, due to the fact that she often had cravings for sweet Dairy Queen treats, which of course she was obliged to supply me with whenever I was with her. Now some might think I would have had a rush of emotions but in all honesty, seven year old me was just glad to get out of that dark classroom and away from the dreaded handwriting projector, and at least another hour of staggeringly decreased mental stimulation.

After picking up my older brother Edward from the third grade, we drove back to our little gray house just off of the lake. It was a cloudy day in mid May and our yard smelled like wet leaves due to the fact it had just rained. We sat in our back yard with my uncle waiting for my oldest brother Joseph to return home from his school on his bike so that we could go to the hospital. My littlest brother James was not school age yet so he was already at home. I was extremely anxious to get to the hospital, so I stood on the edge of our yard and kept looking down the street for my brother every fifteen seconds. When he finally came, we drove off in my dad’s black Lincoln town car toward the hospital. I remember smelling the familiar scent of my dad's peppermint soap mixed with the less pleasant smell of the skunk that he hit in his car what seemed to be years ago.

When we got to the hospital, my dad walked us to the maternity ward. I had only been to the hospital twice before but I had never been old enough to remember. The halls were an incandescent white and smelled of hand sanitizer and rubbing alcohol. There were machines buzzing in every room and nurses and doctors in scrubs and lab coats whizzing by. On our way upstairs, I passed an old man in a wheelchair who smiled warmly at me as I walked past.
When we got to my mom's room, she was cradling a tiny baby wrapped up in blankets with a little blue baby hat on. It almost distracted me from the garish blue paint with yellow ducks that covered the ceilings. My dad instructed the four of us kids to go sit in the chair next to the bed. My eye immediately caught sight of an uneaten brownie sitting on her tray. I asked if I could have it and she said I would have to divvy it up amongst the creature I called my brother Edward. It was rich and chocolaty; much better than the PB&J roll up I had for lunch. We all scrambled into the chair and sat patiently as our mother greeted us. “Hey kids.” She sounded very tired and worn. I could tell she was trying to be sordid for us but I could still detect slight sniffles coming from her red cheeks.

“Hi Mom” we all replied in imperfect unison.

“Would you guys like to hold your baby brother?”

“Sure” we said in reply. She handed the little bundle to my oldest brother first because she said we needed to finish our brownies before we could hold him. Joseph held him for a little while and then gave him to Edward, both saying things that I decided not important enough to commit to memory. Finally it was my turn and I got to hold the baby which was heavier than I thought it would be. The yellow duck baby blanket brushed against my skin as I cradled a quiet miracle in my hands. His face was soft and his nose was as tiny as a button. He didn’t make a single noise, but I knew why. Two months earlier, my parents told me that he had a rare condition that prevented his brain from forming fully. The survival rate is next to none. He was still warm despite the fact that his heart no longer beat. “What is his name?” I asked.

My parents looked at each other then replied “Matthew, it means a gift from god.”
Some time later it seemed like years but could not have been more than a few days we had his funeral. He was buried right next to his uncle who suffered from the same condition.
The next two or so weeks were filled with “I’m sorry”’s and other caring words from family and friends. People sent flowers, baked us casseroles and did all of the other traditional comforts; however they made no difference to me. Before that day, I was a simple child. I thought that the entire world was perfect and that nothing bad ever happened. However, the day after the funeral, I felt as though I had not changed. I went to the same school, I played at the same park, I watched the same TV shows, and I had the same friends. To me, it seemed as though nothing had really happened .

As I look back on that rainy day in May with older, more knowledgeable eyes, I realize that something inside me did change. Though not very visible at the time, and still hard to see, I am different than I was before my brother was born. I see the world through a different light. I feel for those who lose their loved ones on a whole different level. I look at toddlers and can not help but to imagine what Matthew would be doing now, or what school he would be in, or what his favorite color would be, or if he grew up to be a football player. I have so many questions that while I am on this world, have to remain unanswered. Today, Matthew is just a sad story that I don’t like to bring up. Not because it was terribly painful, but because it just creates an awkward situation for whoever is listening. My family has even stopped discussing him. So, Matthew is remembered silently. He is in my heart and in my mind every time I help my littlest brother with his homework even though I still must do mine, or make a decision, not because it’s what I want but because its right. Though he may not be remembered in the traditional ways, Matthew will never be forgotten.