Human Symphony

Allison Taya Willson was a human symphony. Everything she did, no matter how sporadic, was graceful and beautiful.
   I remember one day whilst walking, I saw her dancing in a small, otherwise empty area of the park. Every move was smooth and connected-legato, in musical terms-as if she'd known every footstep and arm movement since she was born. I watched her for awhile, anyone sensible would have, taking in everything there was to take in of her. Her dancing was the violins and violas in her symphony, every move being light and strong and passionate and breathtaking all at once.
      The next day and many days after that she didn't show up to school. This was common, she got ill easily, but it still made me wonder. She told me months before that the reason she was always ill was due to anxiety, which didn't add up, given that it was three weeks from the end of the school year and she was already ahead and on to tenth grade work. This, was that breathtaking moment before the finale, the moment where things become soft, yet are sharp with anticipation.
Over the next few days I remembered a moment when I first heard her speak to me, as in a moment where she wasn't just joking around with the few people next to her, but actually talking. She told me I was in front of her locker so I moved, but she only stood there for a minute before mumbling something and walking away, only later explain that she forgot that she had chorus practice and therefore didn't need anything from her locker. She told me she tried to say sorry, but got really embarrassed so it wasn't loud. This, this was the harps. Quiet and under-recognized, but never completely forgotten.
She came back three days before the last day of school. She didn't talk to me that day, in fact, she only talked to the teachers that day. That was the day I saw it. Her panic attack and over stimulation meltdown, one right after the other. We were sitting in study hall, I was directly across from her, sitting with my friend at the other side of the room when it happened. She tensed up and froze for a second, breathing loudly. She dropped the pencil in her hand and never even bothered to look down when it fell off the table. Her lip quivered, as if about to cry, still hyperventilating. She tried to get up, presumably to leave when she dropped to the ground. That's when everything went downhill. Naturally most people crowed around her. She was on her forearms and knees, now both hyperventilating and crying. By the time she stopped she stood up, heard everyone murmuring and talking to her, she had transitioned into experiencing over stimulation. She pushed past the people and bolted out the door. I was the only one who followed her into the empty closet, which only after I walk in realize it was the gifted and talented room. I see her sitting on the floor, slightly rocking back and forth and still crying a little bit as well. I stood there silently, waiting for her to stop. When she did, I walked over to her silently. "It's okay." I murmured quietly, reaching out a hand to help her up. She accepted it silently, and when she did, I saw them on her right wrist. Two slightly puffy, scabbed over scratches, far too organized and spread apart to be accidental. By the time I processed this, she was heading out the door. This was the cellos in her symphony. Low and slightly sad, but still as complex to analyze as the rest of the piece.
She talked to me the last day of school, yet I never said anything about the scratches, but she seemed just as happy and silly as normal. This was the finale, the big thing that was incredibly captivating.
About three weeks into tenth grade, a day after she stayed home sick, it was announced that she committed suicide. As soon as I processed it, a sting of guilt pierced me. I should have said something. I should have asked her why she self harmed. Dammit, I could have done so much! But now I couldn't, because now she was lying in a morgue, hazel eyes staring at a ceiling she could not see. I wonder if it was truly intentional, or if she was just harming herself and she cut far too deep and bled far too much. This moment, was when the finale stopped, but the lights weren't on yet, so everyone war sitting in their seats, not even daring to breathe, knowing that now, the symphony was only a memory.
At her funeral, I stood at her open coffin, clinging to the edge of it as if when I let go, it would disappear, only to have an incorrect memory each time my brain recreates that image. "Dammit, I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry." I say moving a hand to where her pulse would be, where her pulse should be. I knew there were people behind me, staring at me, staring at the shell that at one point was a girl. I leaned in close, breathing on an overly animated face that would never breathe again. "I should have said something." I whispered and walked to my seat. This, in her symphony, was when the lights come up, and everyone leaves, but only some walk away with something from said experience. I hope I could be considered one of those people. Because she was a proper friend, despite us never actually being particularly close. She was kind, funny, sympathic, and real. Yeah, she broke down, but 99.9% of the time she rebuilt, and the time she didn't, it wasn't her fault she didn't.
   Five years later and I still go to her grave every other day to just talk to it. Sure, according to everyone else I have "moved on" as in I pulled my life together and carried on with my day to day life, but I still  know that there is something, no-someone missing in my life. Today I just stared at her grave. Apparently before she died, she filled a notebook on what she wanted to happen after her death. Things like her will, where she left a few things to certain people (for example she left her instruments and iPod to me, her college fund to her mom, and her archery stuff to her brother) but mostly she made a list of the people (and in what order) that she wanted to take what they would like to have. I grabbed mostly things I would use daily (her oversized hoodie that fit me, all of her emo trinity and Three Days Grace CDs, and a few books), but I also grabbed a few pointless things (her calligraphy pen, a notebook, and her silicone bracelets). She left everything she wanted to happen after her death in the book, right down to a certain thing she wanted on her grave, that being "so long and goodnight", a quote from "Helena". And as I sat there soaking in those words as I always did, I remembered her soft singing. Light and delicate, but passionate all the same. This moment was the moment far after the symphony was over, where someone might be going to a different show in the same auditorium, and remember the past performance they saw.