I sit in the same corner I've been in since I started coming here a month ago. The art teacher is chattering on about how to paint a bird, and the vocal instructor is saying something about changing the key to a song. Then there's the sound of a basketball hitting the pavement out the door. There are so many distractions around me, yet the only voice that I can hear the clearest is hers.

It should be a blessing to still hear the tender tone of her voice, to inhale the subtle hints of gardenia when I focus long enough. But there's this nagging ache of pain at feeling her so close when I know how impossibly far away she is now.

What I should do is try to drown her out, but I'm terrified that the moment I do, I won't be able to get her back.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard the phrase I'm sorry for your loss in the last few weeks. It's a funny saying if you think about it. It sounds like I misplaced my favorite doll or forgot where I left my journal. I mean, that's the definition of losing something, right? Misplacing it to the point that it can't be found? Is that really the word we've chosen to describe death? She's gone, and I can't get her back. I didn't misplace her, she was taken from me. Ripped from a life that she cherished.

The same tears that have been flooding my eyes every single day do a dance across my vision as I think about the cruelties of life. How does it work? How is it decided who gets taken from us and when? Because I can't seem to answer that question.

My mom was the brightest, most talented, beautiful, kind hearted person in this whole useless town. And now she's just gone. Chosen for something better, they say. Yet no one can seem to answer what could possibly be better than being our mother. Because she was a really good mom, and I don't know how to go forward without her. I don't want to go forward without her.

"Hey, Mack." I don't have to turn to know my brother is beside me. I am fortunate enough to actually have three older brothers. The one next to me now is Jared. He's only eighteen months older than me. We fight a lot. Well, we used to, before we lost all of the energy to bicker. It's a funny thing, actually. When you lose all feeling, apparently you have nothing left in you to fight for.

"I found these," he says quietly, placing a baseball glove in my lap. I don't look down, but instead continue gazing out the window, watching another day pass us by. "Do you want to throw a bit?"

The instinct to deny him, to shake my head in stubborn denial washes through me. But then my eyes catch his. This hopeful sense of begging for me to come back, to give him one thing that's normal in a sea of change. He's been trying, they all have. Each day it's something different. Catch, hoops, painting, singing, dancing. It doesn't matter what the activity is, my answer remains the same. No matter what I'm doing or how much fun I'm having, it won't change the emptiness I feel inside of me.

But today when I look at my brother, it's the first time I see his pain looking back at me. It happens in a wave of overwhelming clarity. Everything falling perfectly into place like the Tetris pieces Jare and I spent the majority of the hospital stays mastering.

Maybe the activities here aren't meant to heal me, maybe they're meant to mend their wounds. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, it's not my pain that needs to surface. Maybe, if I can push it down far enough, it will heal the family that I do have left. That's what my mom would do.

That's what she did.

She always put her pain aside for us. Even in her final moments, she was the one to make us laugh. And so, after a month of grieving, after seeing the ache in my brother's eyes, I swallow my hurt. I push it away.

For him.

For everyone.

My hand falls to his, a smile forcing its way across my face. "Yeah, Jare, let's play catch."

6 Months Later

"Alright, bottom of the ninth, you're down by one, two outs, runners on second and third."

"I know the situation, Jare, pitch the dang ball!" I shout as I pull the bat above my shoulder. This is it. He glances back at second then back to me. I know his go-to pitch. I know what's coming.

He winds up and releases the ball. It's coming in fast, but I'm ready. I drop the knob of the bat and begin to turn my hips into the ball. I connect, sending it sailing past him. My feet take off, flying on air and rounding first.

Stephen, my oldest brother, crosses home. Tied game.

I look out to center and see Travis, my second oldest brother, slinging the ball in. The winning run is headed toward home. The ball flies past the cutoff and sails perfectly into place. The runner slides in, and I hold my breath.

I look toward John, our counselor slash umpire, to see his arms spread out in front of him. "Safe!" he yells.

Stephen comes sprinting toward me, and I can't help but stick my tongue out at Jare who is now shaking his head. Stephen wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me into the air.

It's moments like these that it makes it easier to hide the pain. I can still feel it, though. I don't think it ever truly goes away, but it stays locked up. That's as close to gone as it will get.

"John, we need you inside. We have a newcomer!" I look over at Stacey, her bright blue hair glows in the afternoon light.

John drops his head, taking one of those heavy breaths. The ones that lift your shoulders and send them plummeting down with a weighted fall. It's brief though, his head lifts back to us all before offering me a smile. "Nice hit, Mack." He gives a quick wave, dropping his hand before heading inside.

I can feel the mood shift on the field. Stephen slowly puts me down and wraps his arm around my shoulder, holding me against him. Getting a newbie isn't necessarily good news around here. The fact that they have somewhere to go to heal is great news, the fact that they need to heal in the first place is not so great.

When we make our way inside, I glance around the room to try and spot the newcomer. It doesn't take me long. There's a boy, about my age, nine years old, sitting in the same corner I sat in for over a month. I glance over to Jare, and he nods.

I realized a while back that though I would never truly heal, I could still help others. Pretending to have moved on seemed to have helped my brothers. When I showed how broken I was, it just held them back. When they thought they were helping me, it in turn helped them. So that's what I do now. I help others.

I slowly make my way to the boy. He has a deep shade of black hair, slightly falling into his face. I know that feeling. The feeling that you can hide. If only it actually worked. His hands seem to be fiddling with one another, probably attempting some sense of distraction from the burning hole in his chest. I notice the Nikes he's wearing, along with a pair of sweats and a matching Nike shirt. I'm going to assume it's safe to say he likes sports. Perfect.

I slide into the bench next to him. His gaze doesn't falter, the lack of curiosity at my presence is a clear sign of that debilitating pain that ricochets across your chest in the outcome of loss.

Most people would sit in the silence, give him his time to grieve. Maybe even offer up a distraction. But pain like his, like mine, it doesn't bow down to shiny objects.

"Hi," I say, dipping my head and trying to see beneath the wave of hair covering his eyes. "I'm Mackenzie, but everyone calls me Mack."

He doesn't look away from the window. Thing is, I don't expect him to.

"I know the last thing you probably want to do right now is talk," I continue. If I had a choice when I was in that very spot, I would have stayed there forever. Ignoring the laughs and games surrounding me. Falling into my own little cave. But that wasn't what I actually needed, so I prod on. "I get that. I sat on this very bench for a month when I first got here. I just want you to know that when you're ready to leave this spot, you have a friend. Friends," I correct myself.

His eyes finally leave the window and I see his pain reflecting in mine. Pain is funny that way. It searches for others like it, but I won't let it find mine. "I have three brothers and we're kind of a package deal," I continue, letting my smile widen.

"Why are you here?" he asks, almost too quiet to hear. He doesn't acknowledge anything else I've said.

I take a deep breath, ready to give my story again. It's practically become a routine now, a robotic, rehearsed response. "I lost my mom about half a year ago." The tears begin stinging my eyes, but I will them away. Not today.

"Does it get easier?" His question lingers on a hopeful whisper.

I want to tell him yes. I usually tell the newbies yes, but something about this boy isn't allowing me to lie. It's in the hazel tint to his eyes, in the way he holds onto my gaze. "It gets easier to breathe, and to function, but the pain you're feeling right now? I don't think it ever gets easier to feel that."

I watch as a single tear falls from his eye. It breaks a piece of me. The piece that's holding those very tears behind a tattered dam.

"I lost both my parents a few months ago." His words tumble out, stealing my breath.

My heart nearly stops. I have barely been functioning after losing my mom, but if I lost my dad too, I don't even know that I could be standing here right now.

"Who are you living with?" I ask without even thinking.

"My uncle," he's quick to answer, resulting in the speechless nod of my head. I'm glad he has family to live with. I'm also glad he found this place. As much as I used to hate coming here, I have really found peace being here nearly everyday.

I can't help but place my arm around his shoulder.

"I'm Camden," he finally speaks up, lifting his eyes to mine. They're a peculiar color. Brown at first glance, but looking through the haze of red swelling his eyes, there's a glisten of piercing green. Like they're glowing.

This tiny moment growing within the peace of a nonexistent bubble is suddenly popped when Stephen slides in, bumping Camden slightly. He's not alone, my other two brothers sit down next to me, all looking at the innocently broken boy beneath my arm.

"Well, Camden, now you have us too," Stephen smiles, catching onto my welcoming vibes. "We're family here, and I can promise you, we aren't going anywhere."

We've done this a lot, my brothers and I. We've become the welcoming committee for all the newbies. We're here enough to nearly catch them all and the sheer size of our group always seems to bring comfort to worried faces. Faces laced with pain and fear. Fear of the darkness that comes with being alone. So, we make sure they never feel alone, from the moment they walk in those doors.

Camden seems different, though. I've never met a kid who lost both of his parents in one swoop. He doesn't have an entourage like I did to support him. He has an uncle, but is that even enough? My brother is right about one thing. We are a family here. And Camden just became one of us.

With our united front, I can feel his shoulders relax a bit, and a small, shaky sigh leaves his lips.

This is exactly why I do this.

By healing others, maybe, just maybe, I can heal myself.