I once thought that I could do good in the world, but it turns out I'm not made for good.

I don't really know what I'm made for.

I was 15 when my baby brother died.

One minute, I was listening to his quiet breathing as he slept

in his crib. Then it stopped. I cried his name and clutched him to my chest. I placed my hand

on his forehead, and suddenly his big blue eyes popped open. He looked at me with the same amazement

that was probably on my face. I can't even

describe the relief I felt then, and the strange certainty that I had done something I shouldn't be

able to do. But those feelings didn't last. He died a few hours later, and no matter how many

times I touched his forehead and called his name, his eyes didn't

open again. He was gone for good. I chalked whatever happened earlier in the day to a fluke.

I decided that I was crazy for thinking that I had healed him somehow. I've been to plenty of

funerals in my time, but Jesse's was something else.

How do you mourn a baby who never even got the chance to live? His coffin was so small.

He looked like a porcelain doll that I could put up on my shelf. I didn't want to cry in front of

other people. I was a teenager. I didn't want to cry in front of other people. I was a teenager. I didn't

want to show weakness. But I didn't feel weak. As I sat in the church, surrounded by

weeping parents and confused children, asking why Jesse was sleeping, I felt powerful. There's no other word for it.

I figured my grief was just manifesting itself in a unique way.

And I did cry later when I was alone.

But while I stood beside my parents,

receiving somewhat heartfelt condolences, it was as if every

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