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I can still remember the day we got him.. He was small and naked, fit in the palm of my hand. We used to feed him until he couldn't eat anymore, until his belly expanded widely to both sides and he looked chubby. In his life of two years, he had babies with our other rat, Mafiffa. Only two rats from Mafiffa and Mafaffy to begin with. Sugar and Cinnamon. Then came another seven babies.

..The boys and girls were separated, and I remember the day.. That Michael Jackson died. We named a rat after him.. And that rat got stepped on as a baby by my mother. It would have died, they say, if not for my tears..

Mafaffy was a good dad.. But he was weak.. He needed the others for warmth, and was always separated from his Mafiffa.. He wasn't strong enough to fight for his food, and.. So he starved to death. We didn't realize his situation.. Until it was too late..

My mom found him, brittle. He was skin and bones. His spine.. It almost shone through that thin layer of skin.. Though.. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. His heart did not beat.. Not when I held him..

And I think what crushed me the most..

Was the look in my brother's eyes..

It was as if he had been hoping I could bring Mafaffy back like I did MJ..

And.. I let him down.. I couldn't bring back the dead.. Even to stop my brother's pain.