I Blame Myself

In the movies, they always make the day of a funeral rainy and sad. I have learned that in reality, the atmosphere is not always so fitting. Today is the day we bury you, and the sun could not shine brighter than it does right now. The air is soft and free instead of sticky and humid. It almost angers me how Mother Nature does not seem to care that you are gone. She does not allow the skies to cry tears of sorrow, the animals to mope about, or the wind to move with strength in accordance to my despair. Instead, the sun is beating on my back as I am suffocated by my black dress, only allowing me to be cooled briefly by the light breeze that speeds past and tickles my skin. The world around me was as gay as ever. The birds chirp above and the rabbits bounce through the tall blades of scratchy grass along the edge of the bordering forest. The sky was cloudless, allowing the sun to smile down on us. Across the street, children frolicked happily through their yard as they played their games. None of them even noticed the black mass of people standing in the center of the cemetery. Scoffing, I turned my face away from the scene. My mind cannot fathom how the world could still be turning without you on it.

During the service, I thought back to the meadow where we met ten years ago. It seems nothing has changed, though we were just children then. Your face was freckled and young, free of all the lines from sadness and worrying that you had painted across your failing façade just days ago. The meadow was unchanging. The grass was and still is always too high and ticks are always clinging to children's ankles. Daisies popped up everywhere and the slight slope was a nice place for picnics on Saturday afternoons. We were seven years old the first time we set up a blanket and brought out our packed lunches with our triangle sandwiches and pouches of fruit juice. It was in the muddy crevices of this earth where our friendship bloomed. I can almost hear the laughter we shared, like bubbles floating along the summer breeze. A breeze weaves through the crowd, brushing my arm, and I am brought back to the reality of today. A sharp pain presents itself in my lungs as tears sting my eyes.

The year after we met, I remember thinking you were the greatest thing that could ever happen to me. You were my best friend, a gift from God. We rode our bikes across the meadow, so full of life and energy. We forged our own trails and went on our own adventures, as if the world was ours to conquer. We had no limits and I would have followed you to the end of the earth. Your smile was intoxicating, poisoning my bloodstream. It was the kind of poison you didn't mind, an addiction, and I could never get enough. I spent every day of my childhood with that smile. It was like a medicine that would save my life, no matter how fragile your smile proved to be. That bright smile was the simplest, most underappreciated beauty in the world and I pity anyone who never had the privilege it.

Just four years ago, I remember sitting on the stone that lies still lies there today. It was just as cold and hard then as is now. I was sitting there crying over something vulgar someone had said to me, feeling sorry for myself. Your short, red hair was the only color in my world of bleakness. I remember you were picking the daisies and a couple buttercups, freshly grown from the fertile soil. With your heart set on seeing my eyes light up again, you tied a small knot with red string around bundle of weeds and handed them to me with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which was the only thing a thirteen year old boy like yourself could make in five minutes. You were in such a rush to make me smile, you accidentally broke your mother's favorite dish. In the end, you made me smile, and I decided that everything was okay again. Meanwhile, your mother was screaming at you for the shattered glass on her stained wood floors. Looking back, I wish I had realized that day was the beginning. You were starting to lose weight and your ribs poked out just a little too far, and it had been a few days since you laughed.

Two more years passed and we were finally fifteen. I was obsessed with the boy who sat behind me in my English class and you had decided you had outgrown our visits to the meadow and that it no longer interested you. I still made my pilgrimage, not understanding how anyone could grow tiresome of the magical feeling the meadow radiated. I noticed the wilting flowers, as winter was approaching fast. Still, I could not understand your disinterest.