Sitting here in mud and wet grass staring at you. Lost. Unsure what to think. I see you everyday; now I can’t see you. A crash, a bad accident. Forest lost control. You, being you, were too preoccupied living with no regrets to see it coming. Blood stains the tree on Alma Bridge. Broken branches, shattered glass, and a cross with your name on it remain untouched. 3:30 a.m. I got the call. There’s panic. I got to you in five minutes. This can’t be happening. Sirens ring as red and white lights take you from us. The world is moving in slow motion. I blink and there are hundreds gathered in our home hugging me; I’m numb. Feeding me dust. I’m watching the sunset, but can only see you lie there. They dressed you like a doll, cushioned you with purple velvet. I see you in the ground. Flowers released by shaking hands. Dirt turned to mud by constant tears as each one of us kneels to bury you. It’s getting darker now and I’m here with you again. A month has felt like five minutes. I’m not ready to say goodbye. It’s just me and you here, like it’s always been. My other half. My older brother. My hero. In losing you, I’ve lost the biggest part of myself, the core of my being. I let out one last cry and kiss the ground where your body rests. If only God could have taken me with you.
Hannah Reed is a student at SJSU.
The Bolt Magazine 