In a perfect world, would there have been a Franklin? The third sibling, a brother that never was. Franklin would be a little guy, a few years younger than me. He would have my dad’s curly hair and my mom’s light brown eyes. Harry is the oldest; the quiet overachiever. I would have been the classic middle child. Franklin would have been the youngest. Funny, and sweet. The name Franklin apparently means “free man.” Franklin would have lived his life one day at a time.

Franklin would have hung out with me on the farm. He would have loved taming some cats and building forts in the hayloft and throwing cow pies at me. Franklin would wear sweatshirts all the time to be like his big sister. She wore sweatshirts. She was pretty ok. Sweatshirts = pretty ok, and that would have been good enough for Franklin.

Franklin would have gotten in trouble at school, but for stupid stuff, like dumping a little puddle of water on the teacher’s chair before she sat down. She would have known it was Franklin. It was always Franklin. Franklin would have loved to draw. Pictures of super heroes and sword fights and himself in the middle of his family of five. Franklin would have been the odd number. I love odd numbers.

Franklin would have been great at sports, but not at first. He would have tried baseball, but couldn’t catch. He would have tried out for basketball, and gotten cut because he was too short. He would have played soccer, as a forward. He would have run after the ball and kicked at it, never mad when the goalie blocked it. He would have just tried again. Franklin would not have been a quitter. Franklin would have played tennis too, with me, and he would have been better. That would have annoyed me, because he was already good at soccer. Why couldn’t I have been the one that was good at tennis? Middle child syndrome…

Franklin would have been Harry Potter for Halloween every year since the year he learned how to read.

Franklin would have been a hugger. He would know when I needed one, and he would hug me around the waist and squeeze me tight because he loved his sister. Franklin would have always made me feel better. If Franklin saw me checking my phone, waiting for calls that weren’t going to happen, he would have taken my phone away and hid it so I wouldn’t care. If someone told me that writing would never amount to anything, Franklin would have made sure I saw him, sitting on the couch, reading a story I had given to him for his opinion.

I can’t ever picture what Franklin would have been like as an adult. He’s forever a kid. The idea of Franklin grows up with me, but he remains little. Maybe because he’s just an idea of what was supposed to be. Franklin is not a reality, but since when did the mere idea of something stop a writer from believing in the validity of their story?

Luciana, 23.75