Counting by Fours

4

The number pounds in my head as I run, run, run, hoping time is not my enemy today. I got the call at 4:00, and now it’s 4:14. Too long. I swerve around the crowded city sidewalk, barely sparing time to mumble apologies when I barrel into people’s shoulders.

4

I remember trying to catch my breath when I heard the news. Tried the four square breathing my therapist taught me, though my breaths had refused to slow, my mind filling with the panic of “when” and “how long?”

4

The age I was when he first came into the world, squirming and wriggling. He didn’t cry, not at first: it was like he was still adjusting to being out in the chaos of the world. It’s strange how quickly he outgrew that as he hurtled through life, regardless of what came his way. Even at 11, he’s still as energetic as any toddler I’ve met.

4

The number of times he tried to get me to watch him do this really cool trick he just learned on his bike, but I hadn’t because my own brother didn’t seem to matter as much as Instagram. Mom always told him to put on his helmet, but he’d always forget in his excitement.

4

The number of extra days I would have had with him if I hadn’t gone on that damn ski trip with my choir group. No, I can’t think like that; Mom said he was alive when the ambulance took him to the hospital.

4

The steps it’ll take to reach the hospital door. I hesitate a moment, my foot frozen on the second step. I take a shaky breath, collect any extra pockets of bravery I may have, and climb the final steps.

4

The number of family members I see among the inviting colors and plants and bright sunlight in the waiting area. My grandpa, cradling my mom against his lanky frame; my grandma, sniffling into her plaid patterned handkerchief; and my aunt, who won’t even look up. She’s always been ashamed of her ugly crying.

4

How many seconds it takes me to realize:

I’m too late.