ALL OF MY FRIENDS ARE DEAD

         In elementary school, I was not the most popular kid and it was difficult to relate to others. To this day, I don't know if it was because I was awfully shy or they were all just stupid. There were only a select few who really made an effort to be nice to me. One girl in particular talked to me every day on the bus and invited me to sit with her at lunch. We talked about animals, roller skating, Lisa Frank, Goosebumps, and how we were pretty sure the school janitor lived in the boiler room. One day, I lost my ring on the playground. I knew I would be in trouble because I took the ring without permission from my mom's jewelry box. My friend spent the entire recess period helping me look for it, all while telling me how excited she was to get her braces removed the next day. After her dentist appointment, she would be going to her dad's house and she couldn't wait to show him her smile. She was absolutely ecstatic. 

       She died in a car accident before she could make it to her dad's house -- just two days before Halloween.

       I had to listen to every student on the bus speculate about what happened during her final moments. Some said she flew through the windshield, landed in a ditch, and was crushed by the other car instantly. Others said she landed in the ditch, remained conscious for a few minutes, asked rescuers for her mom, and then faded out. A few claimed she was split in half. Some said she didn't die until they finally made it to the hospital. But, everyone agreed she would never get to show her dad her new smile. 

       I didn't offer anyone my input. I kept to myself. It wasn't until later in the day when a teacher caught me crying in the bathroom that I was ushered to the makeshift "grieving center." I recognized a few of the kids sitting around the circular table. I didn't like any of them. My teacher asked if I wanted to go home, but I told her no. As soon as she asked us to "talk about it", I told her that I had changed my mind. During the ride home, my mom asked if I wanted to attend the funeral. Without even thinking about what that would entail, I said yes. I remember her whispering to herself, "I've never been to a child's funeral before." 

       I signed my name in the guestbook and kept my eyes to the ground. I could hear the sniffles and sobs of various family members. I couldn't bring myself to look at anyone. For one moment, I let my eyes stray to the white and pink casket nestled between two wreaths. Her hands rested upon her stomach and her blonde curls kept her face hidden from my view. My mom grabbed my hand and lead me to the front of the room. My eyes remained glued to the floor until I mustered up enough courage to look in the casket. She didn't look like herself. Her skin was made of a pale stone. I wondered if the kids at school were right. Maybe she had been split in two. Maybe she had been split into so many pieces that they couldn't have an open casket, so they decided to make a wax replica of her instead. I'd never seen a person with skin like dusty porcelain. I stared for longer than I should have, half expecting her to open her eyes, look over, and smile at me. My mom pulled me away from the casket and we took our seats. I don't remember the rest of the service.