weet Sorrow

ie M Johnson

slow creaks of gymnasium bleachers echo he walls “ She was a loving friend, a derful daughter ” Low murmuring and t cries are barely heard over the feedback of microphone. “Hailey’s untimely death is ething that will stick with all of us... ” mely. I fight to stifle back a laugh. When is h not untimely? And even so, how was ey ’ s not the most predictable of all? She had exactly the way she wanted to, but of se no one here will say that.

w that she’s gone let us not remember how passed, but rather how she lived ” Of se they want to remember her the way they her, a bright shining beacon of positivity, golden curls that could be seen from the n Blessed with shining jade eyes that were fortable, and welcoming If only they knew many nights she spent drowning in tears, matted with neglect, eyes red and sunken. nights I’d sit with her, and force her to k happy thoughts and wait for her to smile.

y wanted her to be perfect. Not some other querading socialite whose deepest feelings never accounted for. But that's all that she been, and now, all she'll ever be. Maybe I’d it more sad if it wasn't so predictable I k back to all of their faces being plastered shock Her parents' faces, chock-full of fied stupefaction Fleeting emotions of guilt regret flying across their features But that dn't be their Hailey Another high school stic? This week's big story? One of many spaper articles plagued with fleeting ficance? A sob story and an excuse. Another ed laugh. If only they knew.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to sit with me in a moment of silence to honor Hailey’s passing.” The bleachers creak again as hundreds of sullen bodies adjust to the loud echo of an ever imposing end. When the silence is over we stand, and I can finally go back to English. It’s unbearable, and vaguely ignorant truthfully, for as many people as walk these halls to pretend they ever cared. To entertain themselves with the idea that they would have ever understood. I was the one who was there. I helped her out of her darkest days I'm the one who talked her off the edge oh-so-many times before the one that would claim her But, of course, no one cares about the times you almost die

I look at my teacher as we enter the room She seems heavy with guilt, almost dripping with it Her boney frame looks more frigid and tired than usual.

“I know today is tough so, until you are dismissed, I'll finish reading aloud the next few pages of Romeo and Juliet as you relax at your desks. And, again, remember, if you ever need to talk about anything I'm always here,” she says with a pained smile.

A tale of two desperate lovers clinging to the hope of one day being together, only to kill themselves from the disappointment of their true fate? Seems light enough She opens the book and begins to read We’re only a few pages in when she says that famed line, “Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow. ” It never ceases to compel me, how comfortable we are putting off for our futures the things we wish to happen today. Especially when said “tomorrow” is never promised. In fact, I find it irritating how secure everyone is with the notion. What great philosophical meaning does another day bring that each moment doesn't? It's unfortunate, disgusting even, for anyone to assume that another day will bring them new hope rather than greater hopelessness Shakespeare may have understood love, but what he did not understand is, the only continuity is the “sweet sorrow ” rethink the events of today. A morning loudspeaker announcement to commemorate Hailey, a seemingly endless series of drawn out, needless lectures recounting her passing, and yet another hopeless attempt to ease teenage despair in the form of an afternoon memorial assembly. The continued futile attempts at further prevention, at this point, are entirely too unbearable to endure Where was this solidarity when they met her eyes in the hallway or saw her tear-soaked jacket sleeves? Or when her grades declined and she had to quit soccer? What about when her weight dropped and she was out for weeks? They didn't notice then, not so much as a phone call. Because I was her best friend. Sure we aren't as close as when we were kids but I was still the one who knew her better than any of them. She could always count on me to keep her secrets, to listen to her cry and tell her “it will be alright.”

The crosswalk light changes and I make my way across the street. It's a hot spring day in our town, yet I feel a growing sense of numbness begin to swallow me whole The gradual effects of the day slowly creeping in and creating a pool in my stomach The wind pulls at my hair and a chill like ice water settles over me

My thoughts chase after me as I walk up the street. With feet like bricks I walk towards my house as it slowly comes into view. Flowers lay at the door, a pitiful gesture, yet an unfamiliar feeling fills me still. Not quite sadness, and not far off from remorse. The front hallway is full with the scent of decaying blossoms and the weight of messy apologies. Written letters cover the dining room table, unopened. Pity melts into a shallow pool of sympathy as I realize the pile has doubled since the morning, yet sympathy is still an unwelcome feeling

The bell rings and the same sullen bodies rise once again. On the walk home I have time to

“The arrangements have been made and she’ll be ready for you by the morning,” I hear an aged voice murmur Similarly broken and tired figures utter their appreciation as the shadowy figure walks back through the living room and out the front door. As soon as the door is closed heavy cries and cursed apologies fill the house. Dull conversations filled with ‘I-know’s and ‘It-willbe-okay’s haunt me and take the air out of my lungs. The intense sense of familiarity is suffocating.

I leave the hallway and open the door to my room where more bouquets and letters await me All addressed with the same name, all likely reading the same words. Vague apologies to ease their own emotions. Small interactions overblown into beautiful exchanges and communications of true friendship. Gifts from people whom I didn't know, and who never knew me. Selfishly, they all felt they needed to use me as an excuse to ease their own subconscious Assuring themselves they did all they could while simultaneously doing nothing at all It's almost equally humorous and depressing how performative it all feels Even still, I begin to read the letters my parents have set across my bed, taped to the mirror, and tacked to the walls

And yet, as I read, a slow and painful realization overtakes me. These letters are genuine in their regret. Lost acquaintances and past friends truly feel responsible for what's happened. As fruitless as their attempts are now, I've started to see how affected they all are, and how very little of it is, in fact, for show. I step away from their words, a new realization washing over me. Have I made a mistake? Was I wrong? Had I in some way assumed something about them that wasn't true? The idea is almost as agonizing as the reality The reality that I was, in fact, loved

Slow and hesitant steps towards the vanity mirror bring me only further to a girl I want nothing more than to stop hearing about. Her shiny blonde curls are almost beautiful enough to distract me from her sunken features. Her gleaming green eyes are almost mesmerizing enough to hide the dejection they hold. I take a step forward and lean against the dresser, searching for a clue to who we had been, and she does the same. And then, just for a second, behind the fragile stature and matted hair, the red eyes flooded with tears, I could see the girl I too had once loved