Your friends aren’t supposed to die when you’re a freshman in high school.
When you’re all fifteen years old, your biggest concern should be who hooked up at the school dance, or how to keep from failing algebra. You feel invincible, with your whole destiny ahead of you.
So it was a surreal experience when our soccer coach showed up to practice late, interrupted our warm-ups, and told us sit down. There had been an accident, he said. Amber, our teammate, was dead.
His words reverberated in my ears, which felt like hollow caves. While my teammates cried and hugged and sat in stunned silence, I felt like my spirit was slowly rising, hovering a few feet above everyone, completely disconnected from my body. It dawned on me that I’d never see Amber again. She had been my friend since elementary school. We had shared school projects and celebrated birthdays together. I could still see her face in my mind. I could recall her exact sarcastic tone and smirking expression that she had yesterday in English class. Finally, after what seemed like ages, my soul reengaged with my body, and I began crying for my friend.
The next day at school, grief counseling was offered to anyone who wanted it. Our entire soccer team went together, unified by t-shirts that bore Amber’s jersey number. We sat in a circle of plastic chairs, putting words to our feelings and questions. The space was void of answers, but filled with safety to grieve. We cried until we couldn’t cry anymore.
There was a memorial service to honor her. Leis and hugs were given to Amber’s family. The renowned Hawaiian musician Keali’i Reichel performed her favorite songs. People recalled and shared memories of her friendship, loyalty, and kindness.
I keep a photo of Amber. It was taken at my ninth birthday party. Amber is nearly a head taller than everyone else, having had an early growth spurt. When I look at the photo, I recall that lifetime ago. I remember that time before we knew of saying goodbye, and death, and growing up.
When you’re all fifteen years old, your biggest concern should be who hooked up at the school dance, or how to keep from failing algebra. You feel invincible, with your whole destiny ahead of you.
So it was a surreal experience when our soccer coach showed up to practice late, interrupted our warm-ups, and told us sit down. There had been an accident, he said. Amber, our teammate, was dead.
His words reverberated in my ears, which felt like hollow caves. While my teammates cried and hugged and sat in stunned silence, I felt like my spirit was slowly rising, hovering a few feet above everyone, completely disconnected from my body. It dawned on me that I’d never see Amber again. She had been my friend since elementary school. We had shared school projects and celebrated birthdays together. I could still see her face in my mind. I could recall her exact sarcastic tone and smirking expression that she had yesterday in English class. Finally, after what seemed like ages, my soul reengaged with my body, and I began crying for my friend.
The next day at school, grief counseling was offered to anyone who wanted it. Our entire soccer team went together, unified by t-shirts that bore Amber’s jersey number. We sat in a circle of plastic chairs, putting words to our feelings and questions. The space was void of answers, but filled with safety to grieve. We cried until we couldn’t cry anymore.
There was a memorial service to honor her. Leis and hugs were given to Amber’s family. The renowned Hawaiian musician Keali’i Reichel performed her favorite songs. People recalled and shared memories of her friendship, loyalty, and kindness.
I keep a photo of Amber. It was taken at my ninth birthday party. Amber is nearly a head taller than everyone else, having had an early growth spurt. When I look at the photo, I recall that lifetime ago. I remember that time before we knew of saying goodbye, and death, and growing up.
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