Ads and I used to have this red parachute when we were little. We would play for hours: crawling underneath it as the other would make waves to pretend we were swimming through crimson red ocean waves, laying across our Little Tykes chairs to create a dirt tunnel where we were mining for gold, wrapping each other tight to become ancient Egyptian mummies surrounded by treasures. But my favorite memory of the red parachute was when we would use it as a magic bedsheet.
Certain nights when either the thunder would be roaring outside our bedroom windows or an extra frightening nightmare had awaken my little brother from his slumber, I would crawl into my brother's bed beside him and place the red parachute over his big comforter.
Together his bed would become a jeep, riding through the bumpy dirt roads of Africa on a wild safari or a spaceship taking us up into orbit around the moon. There would be dark cold nights where the room was pitch black, the moon's glow hidden behind dark clouds.
These were the nights where we would grip our red parachute's edges together, and curl underneath the layers of sheets, knowing that no matter what - be it tiger, comets, or hungry wolves in the forest - attacking us the red parachute would protect us both.
Now, 15 years later, I wish I had that magic red parachute back. I wish that I could wrap my baby brother in the red parachute to ward away the disease that is infesting his blood stream. I have this sudden urge to run home to my parent's house, and climb into my brother's bed next to him and wrap my arms around him. I would give anything to take away his pain. I would give anything to be able to give him my white blood cells. To give him my good health.
I would give anything to become his red parachute.