Today, thirty-three years later,  I reflect on the artist my brother Jerremy was.  He had not only a natural given talent, but a passion for art.  As a little boy, I can remember him sitting at the coffee table with his tassled blonde hair looking downward.  Wearing only his underwear and a pair of cowboy boots, he would be entranced in his drawing. His left hand at the pencil, and his right thumb at the mouth.  You couldn't see his eyes because his lashes were so thick.  As he sucked his thumb, he unraveled his thoughts onto his paper.  When he'd sketch out those action packed scenes (filled with people, buildings, trucks, cars, airplanes), the world seemed to disappear.  He was so be happy to be lost in his art for hours!   After Jerremy died, I remember having to go to his school to gather up his belongings.  My mom pulled up to the Junior High, and sent me in to empty out his locker.  I got his combination from the apologetic office lady, and opened up the blue metal door.  Of course there was just what I had expected, the  crammed books, the colored folders, pencils, pens, graded papers, all skattered about.  But what I didn't expect was all the art!  The pieces of him and his story were shoved here and there in disarray.  His way of thinking, and his dreams from life were crumpled throughout the small given space.  My tears landed on his paper memories, as I pulled them out from the chaos.  I stacked everything up on that floor, in that very hall I used to walk through, when I was a student at McHenry Jr High.  I grabbed the stuff, and headed past the trophy cases on my left, and the front office on my right.  As I looked back, I remember vividly how the afternoon sun was shining in through those front glass doors.  It beamed in, and moved down that hallway making everything so bright and memorable to me.  My little brother, our old school and his art.