Shattered

It was the day my life turned upside down. I remember the phone ringing early in the morning. It was a Wednesday and I was in the 9th grade. I was planning to get up earlier than usual to get ready for school. I was never a morning person. I would always snooze the alarm multiple times, trying to get an extra 10 or 15 minutes of shut eye. Yet somehow that morning I didn't press snooze on the alarm. I was still in bed, but my eyes were open. I heard a knock on the door.

"Yeah, I'm up!" I shouted. My aunt knew my habits, and would often check on me to make sure I was getting ready for school.

"You have a phone call," she said.

Strange, I thought. I never got phone calls in the morning. I rolled out of bed, opened my door and walked towards the telephone. There was a tight feeling in my chest. Something was wrong. My aunt wouldn't look me in the eye, I could almost feel the tension in the air. I racked my brain trying to figure out the puzzle, the piece I was missing. Had I done something wrong? I bit my lip and reflected on the past 24 hours.

"Answer the phone," she said sternly.

"Yes, ma'am," I responded meekly.

"He's dead," said the voice at the other end of the phone. I don't recall much of the dialogue that ensued after those words. How? I thought. If this was a joke, it was a cruel one. My legs turned to jelly and my body slid to the floor. My mind grappled with the news. This doesn't happen when you're 13, I thought. I dropped the phone and stared in disdain at the instrument that had shattered my existence.

I gasped, struggling to catch my breath. Hot tears ran unhindered down my cheeks. No one moved to comfort me, and I was glad. I didn't need comfort, I needed the truth because someone had to be lying! Maybe it was a mistake! I thought. I had seen my dad a week ago. My dad wouldn't die? He wouldn't!

I prayed then. Drawing on everything I had learned in Sunday School. Maybe if I prayed, God would hear. I had to believe in miracles. He had raised the dead before, I was confident he could do it again. My head began to hurt. I couldn't handle this. Death, resurrection...it was all too much. It was a Wednesday, an ordinary day. I should have been getting ready for school. Meeting up with my friends at the bus stop. Laughing about the idiosyncrasies of my peers. Instead, I was a curled up on the cold tile, mourning the first man I've ever loved.

As the days rolled into weeks my denial never waned. I constantly checked the door and the windows. Waiting to see or hear him. Believing that he would walk up to the door and explain that it had all been a mistake. The whispered condolences were like the wind whistling in my ear, ever constant, yet easily ignored.

It amazed me then, that everywhere I turned the world continued to exist. People went about their way, doing the things they always did. This was perplexing to my teenage mind. My dad had died. I had expected that the world would halt in its tracks. How could everything and everyone just continue as if nothing had happened? There were no marching band in his honor, no moment of silence, no breaking news on television or radio. It was as if his life held no significance.

Even though his death was over two decades ago, it has shaped how I view the people I come in contact with. I know now that life is fragile. Thus, I love deeply, and ensure that my time and energy is spent with people who appreciate what I have to offer. I forgive easily, and try to avoid conflict at all times. Our days are numbered, and time lost can never be retrieved. So I try to fill each day with love, laughter, kindness and joy. And I am content in the knowledge that when I am gone there will be no marching band, or public holiday or day of mourning, but the memories we leave with our loved ones will last forever.