If I Die Young

A Story by .:Lu:.

For Melissa, one final piece.

She's gone. And I'm still here, wondering why.

Why her?

Why the woman who was my mother?

Why not someone who had a cold heart?

Who would not be missed?

Because.

When you die, people start listening. They open their ears. Even though it's too late.

She died young. And they said so much about her, even me.

She was an artist. A mother. A best friend. A fighter. A teacher. She was all of this. And more. To anyone who knew her. But now? She's gone.

I never said good-bye. I never do. But if I could pick one person to say that to, it would be her. My mother, who left. Too early.

They said she could survive the cancer, two years ago. Others had, and they got it worse. But then they said, it wouldn't. It couldn't be stopped. She would die. the sharp knife of a short life. It hurts, and not just to who it directly hits.

The pain of watching your own mo ther slowly and painfully give up, lose hold, fall in. The light fading from their eyes, until they're gone, gone forever. And I'd do almost anything to see them again, just to tell her how much we all miss her.

The funeral hurt so much more. People standing and telling everyone how the children loved her, the staff loved her, everyone loved her. How she led them to do extraordinary things.

And then, I stood. I told them about her art, how it was more than a picture. How she led me to become my own artist. And how I miss her. How much I would love to tell her good-bye, to finally let go of her.

And I saw them cry. Because they all knew that I had spoken what they wanted to be told.

Sometimes...

I wonder if she's happier, now she's gone.

And if I'll grow over this.