My brother, William, passed away in the summer when I was 12 years old. He

was 18. Two days after the funeral, my parents cleaned his room, put

everything in its proper place, and shut the door. They didn't lock it; they

just shut it. Nothing was said about staying out of his room. However, none

of us went in there again. It was like a grave-a sanctuary for the memories

my brother.

I missed him terribly and sobbed when I thought of him which was often that

first year. Just passing by his bedroom door brought tears to my eyes. The

closed door made it feel as though I was waiting for him to come home from

school or work.

I could imagine his car magazines, surfing paraphernalia, and clothes thrown

around the room and on the unmade bed. Mom was always yelling, "Clean up

your room before you go out." Now, we all wish the mess was still there.

After the one-year anniversary of his passing, my heart had healed to the

point where I began to want to visit him-not like visiting the dead. But

like, being able to reminisce.

We had suffered through all the firsts-first Thanksgiving, first Christmas,

all the family birthdays and holidays for the year. Now, I was ready to take

a glimpse of our life together.

So, one day when my parents were at work, I gently pushed opened the door. I

just stood there and surveyed the room. In front of me was the bed covered

with its dark blue comforter. On the right, blue and brown plaid drapes were

closed across the window. On the left, behind the door, was his desk on

which were his computer and a stack of car magazines. His surfing magazines

were on his left night table. I turned right and walked to the dresser.

There was a tray with a few pieces of jewelry-a puka bead necklace, a chain

with a surfboard charm, and his class ring-Class of 2002. I opened a drawer.

There were his favorite ratty, red t-shirt and baggy, plaid shorts.

I closed the drawer, turned around, walked to the closet, and opened the

door. He didn't have very many clothes hanging. There were a couple of dress

shirts and pants. The most important thing stored here was his surfboard. He

loved surfing. Even though his grades weren't so hot, he would take the heat

and often go surfing after school since we were near the beach on Florida's

east coast.

At this point, I sat on the end of the bed and cried. When I calmed down, I

headed to the door. As I closed it I thought, "No, I'm going to leave it

open." Then I had another thought. I walked to the closet, dragged out the

surfboard, and laid it across the bed.

Then I walked out of the room thinking it's time we brought William back.

It's time we let our memories of him seep out and grow healthy.