David made me mad.

He may have been mad too, because he stormed out of our shared bedroom. I paced up and down the aisle between our beds. What could I do to show the extent of my displeasure?

I flopped on his bed and lay spread-eagle. “I’m lying on your bed,” I called out.

No response.

“My head is on your pillow.”

Silence.

David’s voice calling out to our dog, Wolfy, floated in through our open window. Rats, he wasn’t even inside to hear my teasing. Well, this was no fun. I looked around our room.

Inspiration struck.

I pulled open his underwear and sock drawer. Matched pairs of balled-up socks lay in rows on the left side. I created new sets of similar, but not identical, colors. I chuckled, picturing my color-blind brother getting dressed for school.

I turned toward his side of our closet. What to do? I tied each shirt sleeve and pants leg into a knot.

Humming a cheerful tune (I can’t whistle) I left our room and left my anger behind. I wasn’t mad anymore.

Without knowing it, I had practiced an early form of anger management.