Faded blue, once fluorescent yellow now dingy from countless days of wear, and muted green all bound in one small wristband. The words “Andrew Alexander Tanner Faith Hope Love” are engraved in the bracelet. The words have faded, but the memory, the incident, is forever burned in my mind. I still remember the day I got my first AAT bracelet, the emotions so raw, the wounds still fresh, and my eyes still red from the tears I hid, and still hide, from my family. Now everything is nothing but a dull, but painful, memory.

I remember Andrew, tall for his young age and he was tan and thin. short brown hair crowned the top of his head and reached for the tips of his ears. His brown eyes glowed when he smiled, which could brighten the entire room . Alex was almost an exact copy of Andrew, but his eyes had more life, more push to do the dangerous, Alex also had more of an athletic build. Tanner, the youngest, was the most unique out of the three brothers. Tanner’s hair was the color of sunlight and his eyes burned blue. This is how I remember my three cousins the last day I saw them on that cool fall day.

The leaves were blowing in small tornadoes, crunching and flying when we would run past, creating orange and red confetti. We ran around huge bushes, big enough to hide a small person, and naked trees until we had to stop and let the frigid air sting our lungs and color our lips a new blue. We stopped only for a second the picked up our lightsabers and stick-guns, which were beaten and old from the years of endless fun. We didn’t care what happened, as long as we were laughing and having fun.

Now it’s over. I may never hear Andrew asking me to play star wars in the back yard. I may never feel Alex’s weight as he tackles my legs, asking me for a piggyback ride. And I may never again see the smile on little Tanner’s face when I tickle him after he tells a silly joke he heard today. No, I may never experience that happiness again. So I sit here. writing, tears in my eyes, and three bracelets saying “Faith, Hope, Love” to cover my wrists. I did not lose my cousins after that day, I lost a part of me, I lost my brothers. So, I sit here waiting. I wait for the two little words that are meaningless to many, but everything to me. I sit here waiting for “they’re home.”