Ten Years

I still remember that morning. 7:45, Tuesday, December 2nd, 2003. I remember it vividly, as if the memory slowly etched its image into my head. The only times I can't see clearly is when my eyes were flooding with tears, blurring my surroundings. I remember my mother; she was in pain, in agony. She was screaming and the noise was unbearable. I remember my father; he was running, frantically, looking for the phone. His eyes were red, his face expressionless. I remember my grandfather; he was shocked. He was looking for words to place on his tongue, but they were caught in his throat. Then, I remember the sirens. The high-pitched wail was only half-way heard through the screams and the sobs. Red and blue patterns across our windows, as if they were dancing in that morning light. I remember my brother; he was motionless. His body cold and his precious face still. I remember rocking on the cement, an eight-year old confused and bewildered. I didn't understand, and I didn't want to look.

Hours passed as I waited with a neighbor. If I didn't remember enough, I recall sitting with my neighbor on her couch. Eating chocolate donuts and watching the old MTV. I remember praying with her; I didn't know what kind of God did this, but I wanted to pray. I wanted to do anything I could. Please, oh, please.

The knock on the door startled me, but I had an explainable hope.I knew things would be okay. My innocent vulnerable heart didn't know the depths of pain. That's when they entered, and it was like death too had visited their skin. Their eyes drooped, their lips pale, red lining their eyes, the aftermath of tears on their cheeks, hair crazed, clothes wrinkled and stained with the fading spots of tears. Their eyes: it said it all in their eyes. There was no happy dance, there was no smiles, there was no hope. My parents sat me down, digging deep to find some sort of smile to reassure me. But I wasn't completely stupid. An eight-year old may be confused, but they know what death looks like when they see it.

-

Ten years ago today, the sweetest angel left our lives. My only sibling, the most innocent face, the most precious little being: gone. If I had known the day would have come for my last goodbye to be thrown away, I would have made it worth while. It's as if the night stole the sun, and stole his life with it. In the matter of eight hours, our family went from that to completely broken. We lost the one thing that kept our seams in place, we lost life and love and joy. There's nothing that can make me forget those images. The images of

pain have never left me, and there is nothing in this world that hurts more than death. Isn't that a funny thing? Our biggest fear is death. Maybe not of death of ourselves, but death of those we deeply love. Although my little brother was only one, he left an impact on my life that can never be shaken, can never be torn by the scorns of man, it can be broken by the pain of this world. Without knowing it, he showed me my Creator. He revealed the Lord. He taught me that life is immeasurable and time is precious. Love is a gift and pain is inevitable. There will be an end, whether it's now or later. Today may mark pain and loss, but it also marks life and joy. I will not let today be filled with pain and sorrow, but love and happiness for lives that are lived. I will celebrate this day for God's precious angels, and I will not tempt the grief upon myself. 

If there's one thing you can do today, I beg you: Hug those you love, and don't waste one minute basking in the beauty of their lives.