A box. A simple cardboard box. Left over from when the neighbors got a new fridge. Would you have called it stealing? It's not like they wanted it. So we took it. What could we do with it? Maybe we could make a house, maybe a castle, or an old shop. We didn't know yet, but it would be the highlight of our summer - a summer I would never forget.

We hauled the box into our garage. My brother and I jumped in the box and started to think. What could the box do for us? We had to make use of the box as fast as we could, for summer just had a few weeks left. Suddenly, we got it. The best plan ever. We had a car, a new car right in front of us. And we were going to make the best of it.

The next day we pushed our car out to the street and we hopped in. We had made the steering wheel from last night's pizza box. The pedals we found in the our trash can. We started driving, and kept driving. We drove for days and days on end, having lots of fun. One time we had driven all the way to Florida! That's about 2,000 miles. We drove to many different places, all over the world. We had a ball! One day, as we were driving home from Russia in our box-car, our greatest fear was upon us. Before we could get out of our box-car, it hit us. Literally. A truck, a big pickup truck. It all happened so fast. One second we were driving, the next second we were sprawled out on the ground. Before I blacked-out, I saw the scene, my brother and I covered in blood and bruises, and the truck driver running towards us while fumbling with his phone.

The next thing I knew, I was in the hospital, with my brother lying next to me. He was still sleeping. I tried to sit up, but my chest was in terrible pain. I cried out. What had happened? My family hurried in the room and surrounded me with questions.

4 broken ribs and a broken leg, with a scarred up face. My brother wasn't so lucky with 5 broken ribs, broken legs, a broken arm, and a lot of facial scarring. A lot more than me.

I got out of the hospital a few weeks later, but my brother was still unconscious. Would he survive? Would I see him again? I didn't know. He was my best friend. My only friend. (If you didn't count all his friends that I 'hung out' with, of course, only when he was there.)

I had to go to school again. My ribs still hurt and my leg was in a cast but I could get around fine. My face healed, but my pain was still there, so was my worry. People stared at me, no doubt they were judging me. The boy who drove the box. I was the school clown. For my comfort, I visited my brother everyday after school, without fail. I would talk to him about everything that had happened that day so far. About my classes, the teachers, the other students, walking to school and walking to the hospital. Everything. But I knew he couldn't hear me. He was still in a coma. He wasn't getting any better, and it worried me.

A few weeks later my parents checked me out of school, which was very unusual. They said it fast, so fast I couldn't think. My brother was dead. My mom was weeping as my dad explained. My brother never had a chance. They knew he was going to die eventually, there was nothing they could do.

I returned to school a few days later. Everyone was still looking at me, but it was different this time. Their faces were full of sympathy, not laughter. It's amazing how fast news can travel, even in elementary school.

During this rough time in my life, I had gone to see a counselor. My mom had, too. It helped me through all the hard times. I had a session with him everyday after school. He was very crucial in helping me cope with the death of my brother, but I still cried whenever I thought about what had happened. I hoped that one day I would be able to tell the story without an emotional breakdown.

I went home everyday after my session and cried in my brother's old room. I remembered all the fun we had had in there - the laughs and even the fights we shared together. I missed him so much.

5 years later, I sat in his room again, which had become my sister's room. However, I still saw it the way it used to be, with his Spider-man bed set, Spider-man posters, Spider-man everything. I saw him - his face before we got hit that dreadful day, his delight, his smile, his eyes. The tears blurred my vision. The counselors told me that over time, the sadness would eventually go away and I would be able to talk about his death openly, without crying. Yeah, right. I lowered my head, walked out of the room. I maneuvered my way through the hall, past the bathroom and out to the car. I was ready for the last day of elementary school.

We moved shortly after the school year ended. I was the oldest in my family after my brother had died, the proud older brother of 2 brothers and 2 sisters. My parents and I were the only ones who remembered my older brother at all. My sister was only 2 when it had all taken place and she didn't remember it.

When we reached our new home, I tried to forgive myself. I thought it would be a fresh start for my family. A clean slate. No one there knew about my past and the pain it included. It was a great escape for me. I made new friends, and only my best friend knew of my past, and he was sworn to secrecy.

I now look at my 3 children, Sally, Jake, and Lucy. I know its wrong, but still, Jake is my favorite child. My wife, Katrina, and I named him after my older brother. They're a lot alike, my son and my brother.

My wife calls me into the kitchen using my name, Sam, which, around the kids, is unusual. I go in and find Katrina sitting on the floor with her head in her hands. I put my arm around her, to comfort her. She tells me her only brother had just been killed in a car accident. This made me cry because her brother had died the same way my brother had.

A few days later, after the funeral, we returned home. We turned our lives around. We set new rules. No one was allowed in the street without a parent. No getting in boxes in the street. No balls in the front yard. No pretend cars outside.

I still see my brother's face, even now, all these years later. I hear his laugh. I see him at his funeral, all dressed in his Sunday best, lying in a coffin, finally at peace.

The counselor's words still hadn't come true. I still wasn't able to be open about Jake's death. In fact, I've become more closed up about it. My wife barely knows the whole story. People know it happened and they have pity on me, but they don't know the details. And I plan to keep it that way.

Jake is becoming more and more like his uncle day by day. It fills my heart with joy. Then I see it. In the corner.

A box. A simple cardboard box.