American Rapture

Birdsong outside my window.

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Bright midwestern morning. Fresh sun, clear air. Birdsong outside, and silence inside. Dust specks floating, settling, gathering on stuffed animals, crucifixes, Bibles, in the corners of the wooden built-ins my father designed. Paintings of Jesus, of Mary, in their wooden frames. Beige curtains, beige carpet. Silence in my room.

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The window before me is sealed shut. Sealed because I opened it the night my brother was taken from our home. The night my world went silent. Five years ago today.

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I can feel the season’s change is almost here, but I do not yet know it holds the beginning of the end. I do not yet know anything except the inside of this room and the screams of my brother that live in me forever.

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Downstairs, bacon sizzles in a pan. My mother calls my name. I pull on my plaid pleated skirt, collared shirt, and sweater. The birds outside have flown away.

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In the hall, I press my palm to Noah’s closed door, the framed painting of Jesus beside it, one of so many in the house.

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I picture my brother, sitting on his bed in the low lamplight. The last good moments, ones that replay all the time.

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Our birthday was coming, we were almost twelve, and I had snuck into his room, afraid, like I always was. I never could have known what my being there would do. That these precious moments would become our last together.

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We were both homeschooled and took classes at church, but Noah…