Shattered Looking Glass

        If someone stepped into her room they would see a girl's form lying on her bed. If they had stopped long enough to view her more closely they would have seen a tear-stained face, surrounded by medium brown hair that spilled over her pillow. Her pillow was a brown plaid that held the words "Live," "Laugh," and "Love" on a piece of burlap. Now, did she feel like living? Absolutely; but right now, she wanted to rest her tired soul and body. Was she laughing? Of course not; horrific images tormented her. Last, but certainly not the least, did she love? Awe, the poor thing spent her days trying to make one laugh, comforting another, or serving one more. She loved as fierce as one could hate! Sometimes, it physically hurt when she was rejected that love. She felt the pain most in her heart and throat. Such pain, she could not describe except to say that it felt like a vise-like grip that threatened to consume her if she did not persevere. So she did. She stood back up, brushed away the tears that had leaked out of her determined blue eyes, and lifted her chin. Swallowing her pride, she continued without looking back at the place she fell.

        Back to those images. Ah! How can they be described? An apartment: small, quaint, unique, and warm. Then, night approached; it came without mercy or compassion. Instead, it brought hurt, darkness so thick she could taste its bitterness, and...death. The apartment, once warmed by the Florida breeze blowing through its opened windows, was now choked with the grip of mortality. The peace that was newborn and naive was now shattered by the whimpers of her sister. What was happening? The girl, almost ten, slowly formed into a crouched position. Stepping off the comforting blanket, she defied gravity. Her bare feet connected with the cold, wooden floor and she felt it travel up her legs and into her heart. All she felt was a urgent feeling to run. Trying to calm her breathing, she did not need her asthma to act up now, the girl approached the door. Rising to her tiptoes, she looked out the spy hole. Seeing her father sitting on the ground, she turned the handle. Unknowingly, the girl opened the door for hurt, desperation, tears, life-and-breath-taking pain, and wisdom.

        All the girl had dreamed about was this night. The night her brother's life was taken by two four-hundred-pound grizzly bears. The night she timidly asked what had happened, praying it to be something minuscule. Ah, but her intuition told her that her blue eyes would be filled with more tears than ever before and her heart would permanently hold a small cavern inside.

"There's been an accident."

"That's not funny." The girl was blunt and hoped it was a joke.

"No. It's not. Your brother, Ben, is dead."

But he was so alive! She screamed inside. He was here a few days ago, before we came! He spent days helping our other brother. He was going to come for Christmas! No! No! No! Why him? Why not me? He had plans! He wanted to go back to school, become a veterinarian, and maybe even marry.

Shock. Rejection. Fear. Pain. Anger. Shock so intense the tears did not come at first. Rejecting the reality (maybe it was someone who looked like him). Fear of another dying. Pain at the loss; he was so funny, forgiving, stubborn, and alive. Anger at how she would no longer feel his strong arms around her or hear his deep, thick voice; she would never hear his contagious laugh. Ever again.

     The girl did not remember how her sister found out or when. She did not remember herself beginning to run. She only remembered flashes: down the steps, across the road, around the complex, holding the hands of her mother and sisters. They needed to catch their breath so they sat down on the curb; she did not want to catch hers. She remained standing, wanting desperately to continue running and never stop.

        I am writing this because I know this girl. She is still a broken girl inside, wanting to receive the love she pours out. She is afraid to love, though; she fears losing the person that will become her everything. However, she thinks it better to have loved than not at all. She is healing, blooming into a new kind of flower. If you see her, tell her your thoughts. She loves honesty. When she hurts you, tell her so and she will apologize; she knows what it is like to be down and in pain. If she closes her eyes, she is either trying not to stumble over her words (she's prideful) or she is trying to capture the moment that is filled with bliss and meaning. How do I know this? I am that girl.

Benjamin Cloutier died six years and five months ago tomorrow (April 4th). These were my brother's last words. He sent them in an email to one of his closest friends.  May you take them to your heart and find purpose and meaning in them.