The Sky You Paint
Image Courtesy: Pinterest
It has been three years since you’ve been gone. Last Saturday, February 16th, was the anniversary of your death. It’s hard to wrap my mind around that sometimes. I find myself thinking about where you would be in life right now. Would you have a boyfriend? Would you be getting your master's degree? Where would you be right now? It is hard to wrap my head around your death because you just turned 21. We’re meant to be invincible and live until 100, not just 21.
I remember the day you died—a memory that will be burned into my brain forever. I couldn’t go into an Uber for a few months after that out of fear that I would get a similar call from my mom. I remember thinking the call wasn’t real, like they messed up and got the wrong person. But, when the news articles came out, and more and more family members confirmed what I didn’t want to be true, it hit me like a truck. I remember returning to my dorm and my best friend at the time consoling me over something inconsolable. I remember sitting in the green space in the middle of campus, crying my eyes out because it didn’t feel real. The most vivid memory I have was of the sunset the night you died. It was one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. Hues of blue, orange, yellow, and pink intertwined with each other like a painting that would hang in a museum. I knew at that moment that you were at peace.
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Three years feels like a lifetime ago, yet also not, all at once. You were just finding yourself and getting back on track, and I was just starting a new life in college. I remember the first time we met—the infamous Washington D.C. trip our whole family took. I was 10 and you were 12, and while our age gap wasn’t that big, you looked so much older than me. Our grandfather said it best at your funeral—a friendship blossomed on that trip between us. I was so shy at first, but I remember how you broke the ice between us so quickly. Since that moment, I didn’t want to spend time on that trip with anyone else but you. You weren’t just my cousin, you were my best friend on that trip. I remember walking in the National Mall and sharing a chocolate chip cookie together. I remember coloring together in the fashion coloring book I had while we waited for our dinner. I looked up to you so much that trip.
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We stayed in touch a little between our D.C. trip and the Yosemite trip we took a few years later. I was so excited to be reunited with you in Yosemite. I remember when we had a mice problem in our house, and we both were laughing about how our moms were freaking out. You were always so carefree and full of infectious laughter. I remember blasting the song “Classic” by MKTO in the car on the way to a sunset hike. I always think of you and us in that moment when I hear that song. I remember how you introduced me to the game of license plate bingo to keep us entertained on a long car ride to another hike. You were like a big sister to me on these family trips, and I’ll never forget that. I remember the summers after that last family trip—we made a promise to write letters to each other at our family lake house. Whoever stayed first had to leave a card in our bedroom. It was your idea—a genius one. I remember looking forward to seeing that card every time we went up to the lake.
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It’s weird to use the words “I remember” when talking about you. The past tense of our time together. I wish we kept in touch more. I wish that I didn’t let time pass, thinking that I was going to inevitably see you on another family trip and we would rekindle then. I wish I picked up the phone and texted you. The last text we ever sent, though I don’t remember what it was, was in April of 2021, right before my high school graduation.
It has been three years since you left this world. It is so hard to wrap my mind around that. It is hard to wrap my mind around how you will forever be 21. Your life had just begun, and it is unfair that you were taken away too soon. On the third anniversary of your death this year, I sat outside looking at the beautiful sunset you painted. Everytime I feel the breeze, look up at the sky, or hear the song “Classic”, I know you are there. I think about you almost everyday, and I miss you dearly. You continue to be the sunshine in a world filled with darkness, being a role model and guidance to so many, including me. I love you to the moon and back. Keep painting the sky so beautifully every night.
Strike Out,
Writer: Lauren Butrum
Editor: Grace Groover
Graphic Designer: Ryan Hanak
Tallahassee