playing with fire

My mama always told us children, never to play with fire. What I didn't know at the time was if you played with fire you would wet the bed. I came to that discovery one night after I had a mishap. This mishap brought great satisfaction to my older sister. She was three years older then me and held that fact over my head until my teen years gained me rapid height and I towered over her. But until those days came I was always the youngest and my sister always picked and teased me and on one occasion got me into an awful mess.

I came from a big family, with four brothers and one sister. My sister and I where the two babies of the family, of the children I was the youngest, then came my sister Sharon, who was nicknamed Shorty, then my four brothers Dale, Rob, Martin, and Glen. Glen was grown and out of the house by the time I started junior high. But he would come by for holidays and for leave, he was in the service. I had always looked up to my brother Glen, he was tall, strong, and handsome; the typical football all star. I wanted to grow up to be just like Glen.

One day as I came home from school I saw Glen's car parked in front of the house, my stomach leached with uncontained joy as I jumped from the bus, jumping all four steps. I raced Shorty across the yard and bolted through the door. There in the kitchen was my hero, standing there with that grin he always where. That grin that mama said was just like Daddy's, even though I couldn't remember him; he passed when I was two. Glen was always there for me when I was growing up and even though Daddy was gone it was good knowing that Glen was there. And there he was, once more, standing there in the kitchen. Shorty and I both came running and plowed into him, he barely moved as our little bodies collided with his great stature.