Regrets
Growing up, we didn’t have much, living in the countryside with our troubled parents. Money was tight and us kids often felt the pang of hunger. Being the eldest, I did my best to watch out for my younger siblings, though there were times when I wasn’t successful—one incident in particular has stuck with me.
When I was around seven, my then-five-year-old younger brother proudly pranced over while I was playing, clutching a bologna sandwich he’d managed to cobble together from our meager pantry. It was a sad sandwich, just one piece of meat pressed between two stale slices of bread. Not a slice of cheese or a smidgen of spread in sight.
Seeing his offering, a childish surge of envy washed over me and, in a regrettable instant, I knocked the sandwich out of his small hands. It fell onto the dirt, causing him to cry out and start scrambling to retrieve it.
Before he could recover his precious sandwich, though, our typically friendly neighborhood dogs that we’d kept as pets, seized the opportunity, knocking him off his feet and stealing the sandwich. My brother was left crumpled in the dirt, crying and repeating in between sobs, “I made it to share with you.”
Here I am, three decades later, reminiscing about that day with a sense of sorrow. Though we now have a solid relationship, not a day passes when I don’t wish I could turn back time and act differently out of petty envy. I want to apologize, but part of me hopes that he has forgotten, or at least, won’t recall that unfortunate episode.