I am currently thinking about a potential conclusion and a better introductory sentence...
I knew exactly where it was. The photograph that my eyes had glazed over hundreds of times and vaguely memorized. If I shut them, I could see the outline of her and the fennel stem she held in her mouth, tickling my overjoyed face. The most affection I had known from someone who barely knew me. But I would not dare to close my eyes for I was oblivious to the scope of the intensity that this single photo held, laying face up, collecting dust. I would pretend she was my sister. She loved me like I imagined one would. Her caring eyes never flinched. Never wavered in the sincerity they delivered. I was naive to the perfection her unparalleled warmth resembled. I was told, however, that she was not withdrawn in her actions of kindness. At lunch, she would sit with the kids who had no friends. Stretch the boundaries of her heart for those who had never asked to be singled out, mocked, or ridiculed with the unrelenting potency of high school cruelty. The extremity at which this cruelty hits can only be dreamed of by us. But not to Calli. She knew all along.
Nine years ago, Calli went to the same high school I now attend. At my age, she was involved in a tragic drunk driving accident that left her with untreatable injuries. Her friends, distributed among the passenger seats, narrowly escaped the death that consequently smothered Calli's incandescent youth. In a narrative essay mysteriously due the day of her accident, Calli's thoughts clash with my own. She asks if she does what she knows is right, or if her actions comply with the masses. She contemplates the concept of fate. Are we given ultimate control, or is the destiny that have no part in changing already written out? "Could I have always been that strong, or was it just a phase of my weakness?" I now step backwards. It has occurred to me that it would be prodigal, at best, to let another day slip out of the bank of the uncertain amount I have left. Life is what you make it. Opportunity is what slips by while you are marveling at the scope and ramifications of obstacles and failure.
I now have a copy of Calli's essay elegantly taped to the wall in my room next to my computer. Her words inspire me and give her life meaning. We only begin to fathom the preciousness of this life, however, after it is taken from us.
I do not pride myself on our similarities. Instead, I cry at the waste of beauty. Ten years ago, I did not know. At her funeral, I did not know. Even now, I am at the very age she was when she died, and it is inexplicable to the point that my lips could not begin to quiver with movement; the words were not built to be spoken. Maybe when I am old and frail. Maybe I will never comprehend how such an unrelenting force of magnificence came to break and fall in such a heartbeat.
I knew exactly where it was. The photograph that my eyes had glazed over hundreds of times and vaguely memorized. If I shut them, I could see the outline of her and the fennel stem she held in her mouth, tickling my overjoyed face. The most affection I had known from someone who barely knew me. But I would not dare to close my eyes for I was oblivious to the scope of the intensity that this single photo held, laying face up, collecting dust. I would pretend she was my sister. She loved me like I imagined one would. Her caring eyes never flinched. Never wavered in the sincerity they delivered. I was naive to the perfection her unparalleled warmth resembled. I was told, however, that she was not withdrawn in her actions of kindness. At lunch, she would sit with the kids who had no friends. Stretch the boundaries of her heart for those who had never asked to be singled out, mocked, or ridiculed with the unrelenting potency of high school cruelty. The extremity at which this cruelty hits can only be dreamed of by us. But not to Calli. She knew all along.
Nine years ago, Calli went to the same high school I now attend. At my age, she was involved in a tragic drunk driving accident that left her with untreatable injuries. Her friends, distributed among the passenger seats, narrowly escaped the death that consequently smothered Calli's incandescent youth. In a narrative essay mysteriously due the day of her accident, Calli's thoughts clash with my own. She asks if she does what she knows is right, or if her actions comply with the masses. She contemplates the concept of fate. Are we given ultimate control, or is the destiny that have no part in changing already written out? "Could I have always been that strong, or was it just a phase of my weakness?" I now step backwards. It has occurred to me that it would be prodigal, at best, to let another day slip out of the bank of the uncertain amount I have left. Life is what you make it. Opportunity is what slips by while you are marveling at the scope and ramifications of obstacles and failure.
I now have a copy of Calli's essay elegantly taped to the wall in my room next to my computer. Her words inspire me and give her life meaning. We only begin to fathom the preciousness of this life, however, after it is taken from us.
I do not pride myself on our similarities. Instead, I cry at the waste of beauty. Ten years ago, I did not know. At her funeral, I did not know. Even now, I am at the very age she was when she died, and it is inexplicable to the point that my lips could not begin to quiver with movement; the words were not built to be spoken. Maybe when I am old and frail. Maybe I will never comprehend how such an unrelenting force of magnificence came to break and fall in such a heartbeat.