Last winter, I started to collect stamps. It started when I
received a postcard from my uncle who was travelling through Egypt at the time.
Maybe it was the majestic picture of the Pyramid of Khufu or his bold, scrawled
handwriting informing me of his adventures that did the trick, but either way,
from that moment forward I carefully peeled off the stamp from every envelope I
could find and placed it in an empty metal tin.
“I would collect stamps from all over the world and someday
travel to each one!” Such were my inward and very private musings.
However, my older brother Eliot soon became suspicious of my curious behavior.
He and I shared a bedroom, and I noticed him on occasion peering singularly at the square
tin on my desk. Quickly afterwards I moved it deep into one of my clothes
drawers. I thought this smart move had cleared me of any chance of discovery; but
perhaps I shouldn’t have rummaged through the trash for discarded envelopes and
then run up to my room with a stamp so obviously every time after a successful hunt; but the excitement
which pervaded each new addition to my collection was too much to contain. My
nine year old mind was not then educated in the maliciousness of brotherly
jealousy.
One afternoon, my mother ordered Eliot and I to clean out the attic of a few boxes my grandfather had taken the liberty of storing there about a decade ago. It all happened far to quickly. The first box I opened had a small letter stacked on top of a pile of books. The stamp on the envelope looked very old and exceedingly valuable. With glee, I eagerly snatched up the letter and proceeded to remove the stamp when, in a flash, it was suddenly taken from me.
"What're you doing?" Eliot scoffed, examining the half-removed stamp. "You're collecting these, aren't you?"
My feeble whimper was enough of an affirmative.
He abruptly tore off the stamp from the envelope and scurried down the attic stairs. I followed as quickly as I could and chased him into the kitchen.
"Give it back! It's mine!" I yelled, entering through the doorway.
He was faster, though, and sped into the dining room. We had a tiring chase around the table, and for the millionth time in my life, I despised being the younger brother. My short, stubby legs didn't permit me to catch up to Eliot's giant leaps. I felt the unequalness of our match with physical pain and therefore resorted to screeching loudly. But giving Eliot a moment of idleness wasn't wise; out of the corner of my eye, I saw an orange flash. By the time I understood what was happening, Eliot was holding up the stamp and grinning triumphantly as the orange flame ate the paper up and left a black crinkle between his fingers.
"No!" I cried, my voice raising an octave in animalistic desperation. I couldn't move.
My bleary vision saw my mother approaching down the hall. “What’s
going on in here?” She demanded as her
figure filled the doorway.
But it was too late.
