Dear Noah,

Lately, I can't help but think back to this time a year ago. I think this time of year will always remind me of you for all of my years to come. We were all just getting ready for spring break and the band was going to San Francisco for our annual spring trip. We were working diligently to prepare for our upcoming performances, both at the Music Performance Adjudication and at the festival in San Francisco. The weather was even more beautiful this time last year than it is now. Despite the glorious weather, our hearts were heavy. While we were practicing our repertoire for what was to come, we knew that one very important member of our family wouldn't be able to make the trip with us.

I remember meeting you the summer before my junior year. In band, I always made sure I approached every freshman with cautiousness and kindness, knowing it is a scary thing to be a newbie and jump right into a brand new ordeal. But you were a special case. I knew you were sick. I wanted to do everything I could to make you feel safe and happy and normal. To make sure we weren't pushing you too hard on the marching field. To make sure you felt welcomed and loved by all.

I remember meeting you and your sweet momma right before band camp started. I was almost shocked at how outgoing and friendly you were from the moment I met you. Most freshmen new to band shyly said hello to me and blankly stared as I tried to explain to them how things worked around the band studio. But you greeted me with such energy. You were so interested to get to know me. I was instantly enamored with your positive, confident attitude and your obvious love of life.

You started to get better the next spring. After going to endless treatments, things were starting to look up. You went to pre-band camp and band camp and worked as hard as you could. Thanks for bringing the banana as a prop for our Minions-themed drill at pre-band camp, by the way. Fabulous touch.

Mid-October came, and as the leaves changed, the chilly briskness in the air crept back. As did the cancer. Not once did you complain. Even as you grew tired and struggled remembering parts of the music, you kept your head up and kept on going until you got it. Every time. One night, after we had gotten back from a competition, my mom and I ran into you and your mom. She told us that you were off to Texas for more treatments. It seemed very run of the mill to me the way she explained it. I later realized that she just didn't want anyone to pity her or worry about anything. Your mom always has a way of being strong, making things seem so positive. Little did I know the reality of it wasn't so positive at all.

It was January when my mom heard back from your mom. Despite the prolonged efforts, she knew things were getting worse. While we were praying for a miracle, we were painfully preparing for the inevitable. The band moms were all getting together, arranging ways the band could help show you a little extra love and support in as many ways as we could. Some of my favorite memories from my senior year came to include our little visit to your house to give you the blanket we made you. Or the “Paris Meets Texas" party we had for you in February. Above all, I was so honored to be able to present to you the star that we named in your honor. I hope it helped you feel just a bit brighter in the midst of the thick fog you were trudging through.

More so than ever during this time that you were so physically weakened, I saw the magnitude of your spiritual strength. All I could do was feel heartbroken for you and your sweet family. All you could do was feel the exact opposite. Facing one of the most trying ordeals that life could throw at you, you took it in stride. You knew that God was not finished with you. You knew that what was waiting for you was far stronger than any cancer. You knew that Christ had a bigger plan and greater glory waiting for you some place better. Never in my life have I seen such grace and positivity in the presence of such a trial.

By March, we knew the end was near in your journey on this Earth. While we all wanted you to stay here with us due to our own desires, Jesus wanted to call you home. And we had to accept that. On March 22, the news came. Social media updates flooded my phone. Everyone that knew you expressed their love for you over and over. Everyone spoke of how proud they were of the person you had become and the incredible impact you had made in your short time on this Earth.

The next few days were hard, to say the very least. There were many tears and few smiles. At MPA, only a single red rose humbly occupied your chair. We all wore yellow ribbons on our uniforms, honoring you and standing up to Ewing's sarcoma. Although shaken up, we played with as much strength and passion as we knew how. We could only think of you through it all. Two weeks later, we played through tears as our sound echoed through Duke Chapel. This was our final goodbye.

Sometimes, I look at your picture on my desk and I think back on the memories. Of course it saddens me. But I sit here a year later reminding myself of your positivity. Reminding myself that God has a plan whether we know it or not. Reminding myself that the trials in my life are trivial, and that there is so much to be thankful for everyday.

Above all, I remember that you were right: “Cancer sucks. But Christ is better."

I can't wait to see you again someday. Until then, thanks for sharing your love, wisdom and courage with us and for the beauty you brought to all of our lives.

I love and miss you always,

Nicola