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Even from a distance, I could spy Ike’s matted coat, botched with blood, and the way in which his neck disconnected from his spine. I shuddered at the thought of my brother receiving the news of Ike’s death, as he was the one family member most devoted to the wellbeing of the barn cats. I found Micah perched atop the stone wall spanning the driveway. He sat there, his chestnut hair pressed against his knees as tears plowed a trail down his mud-caked shins. I wrapped my arms around his shaking body. I discerned a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” He had nothing to apologize for.  Micah raised his head and leaned into my chest, releasing small whimpers. I bowed my head and stared down at his small body in my arms, limp and wilting in the sun.

Micah has never lacked charisma. He would walk fearlessly through the halls of the Little Red Schoolhouse with determination and persistence, outfitted with sparkly attire, his backpack embellished with sequins and glitter. Gender norms are difficult to defy as a preschooler, but Micah handled it just fine. He was unwilling to accept judgement from his classmates; but in the case where his outfits were being too heavily scrutinized, he would pull in his older sister from across the hall for extra support. As I watched Micah strut from his booster seat through the front doors of our house, I wondered when his self-confidence would plummet and when his peers would finally knock him down. So, I breathed a sigh of relief as I sat on that rock almost a decade later with Micah sprawled over my legs, his arms tangled in mine. Nothing had changed and he was still that little boy with the rainbow leotard.