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Whenever Wilbur thought of his mother, he thought of warmth and song. He thought of a soft white glow emanating off of a tall woman with a voice like honey, singing along to the sound of an acoustic guitar. He thought of the sleepy smell of the chamomile tea she would brew for him when he shook and cried.
Those memories had been recently tainted by death. Kristin Mors-Craft had passed away during labor at the age of thirty-five. Now, when he thinks of his mother, he thinks of a vanilla candle being snuffed out, the smell of smoke overtaking vanilla. He thinks of a voice like honey laden with uncontrollable cracks and sobs, singing along to a guitar that was far out of tune. He thinks of a baby with golden hair, and her life being transferred to him.
Tommy. Wilbur’s baby brother who carried on his mother’s life. When he first saw him, Wilbur swore to any god that was listening, that he would protect Tommy no matter what. From that day forward, Tommy became Wilbur’s sunlight on the darkest days. He spent every waking hour making sure Tommy had everything he needed. Tommy rarely cried because of this. He was simply a ball of laughter, joy, and light. Wilbur knew Tommy resembled his father, but he had the same warmth about him that Kristin did. Their smiles were identical. His eyes were sky blue, just like his father’s, but the way he looked at Wilbur was the same as her.
On his worst nights, Wilbur would cling to Tommy and sob, whispering brokenly for his mother. Those nights were the only times Tommy cried. Another thing Tommy had inherited from their mother was the innate ability to sense Wilbur’s emotions. When his brother was sad, Tommy was sad. When his brother was happy, Tommy was happy.
All of this was years ago, though. In the present, Wilbur was grown. He no longer cried out for his mother in the dead of night, he no longer clung to Tommy like he was his last chance at staying alive. Their roles had reversed. It was Tommy who cried so often now, who clung to his brother no matter what. But, whenever Tommy shook and cried, Wilbur would brew him a cup of chamomile tea with a spoonful of honey. He would pull his mothers guitar out of a closet full of her old trinkets, and he would sing to him softly. He would sing to him until his shaking ceased, and until his breathing was even. When he felt his little brother’s head on his shoulder, Wilbur would continue playing, just quieter.
“ I’d give you the sun, if you asked me. You could have all of the time… ”
The song was muscle memory to Wilbur. The lyrics, the chords, the strumming, everything. It was his mother’s favorite song, and by proxy, it was Wilbur’s. She would sing it to him nightly, to lull him to sleep through his anxiety. Sometimes, he would wake up and she would still be there, strumming and singing softly. When that happened, he would always see his father leaning on the doorway, smiling with the most adoration and love at the two of them, singing along.
“ You could have the stars and the trees… ”
Tommy was breathing softly, with a smile on his face. He was almost asleep. He could hear Wilbur singing to him, and he was content. Wilbur looked up from his guitar, and saw his father, Phil, standing in the hallway, smiling and singing along. Just like how he used to, when Kristin would play for him.
“ When dividing up the universe… ”
“ You could have mine. ”
Wilbur let out a sigh, and set the guitar down. He looked at his sleeping brother, and then to his father, who was discreetly wiping tears from his eyes. The smell of tea and vanilla wafted through the air, and Wilbur let his eyes flutter closed. He leaned his head on top of Tommy’s.
Everything was good. It would all be okay.
With that, Wilbur fell asleep.