感恩节征文高中组(10)

Contemplation is unusual within the peers in my life. Outside the two-dimensional world that I seem to live in, I’ve been noted as one of the few thoughtful individuals that exist.

So when Thanksgiving rolls around every year, I am not laughing with the rest of my class about creating Thanksgiving cards. Instead I am happily writing a message in my folded piece of blue construction paper.

“Sarbesh… ”

My brother turned to look at me, his eyes reflecting the boredom that was currently being expressed through my voice.

With a pout and sigh, he responded, “Me too.”

His right hand clutched our dad’s cell phone, a game still playing. He put it away and stared off into space. A moment later, he turned to me, his voice excitedly squealing, “Let’s make a secret handshake… I saw how to do it on T.V.!”

Usually, I would be appalled by his childishness, but while I had nothing better to do, I simply responded with a vague, “Fine.”

His face seemed to glow as he high-fived me, shook my hand, suddenly twirling and jumping and creating random sporadic moves on the spot.

“Stop, stop, stop!” I laughed. “I can’t do that, it’s way too complicated.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought formulated… slowly developing into an idea. Perhaps not even a half bad one.

“We need,” I stated professionally, “a secret language.”

As my friend peers over my shoulder, she notices that I am neatly printing my brother’s name on the inside cover. She questions, “Why your brother?”

In some reality, it is said that our siblings are our worst enemies, our arch nemeses.

A tiny set of white doors never seemed so daunting. My hands were sweaty as they clutched on to my edition of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

“Shivani?” my brother called from behind me.

“Not now,” I snapped back. I was tensed, and I really could not deal with him at the moment.

“Shivani!” he shouted back.

“What?!” I retorted, my frustration getting the better of me.

He grabbed my free hand and laced our fingers together. He began squeezing my hand repeatedly, counting slowly under his breath.

“It means ‘good luck’, remember?” he whispered.

I smiled at him. “Yeah, I remember. Thanks, Sarbesh.”

I look back up at my friend. Rolling my eyes, I respond, “He’s my brother. I love him, obviously.” Smiling softly, I know it was more than that. My brother is my best friend, one who tolerates my immaturity and is the bearer of my secrets. And today, like every other day, I was going to be thankful for him.

 

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