The smile that was on my face as I walked in the door slowly faded away as I heard the words that rang out from the answering machine. I did not know what was going to happen.
I felt a knot form in my stomach, and I just froze in the middle of my kitchen – wondering what would happen next, wondering what the future was going to look like.
As my parents dropped me off at a friend's house before rushing to the hospital, I tried to remain optimistic. I tried to tell myself those five famous words that are so often a lie, "It is going to be OK."
I played back the memories of you I had in my mind, and I started to realize that they weren't enough—that nothing was enough.
I was faced with the harsh reality that those memories were going to have to suffice – that at 16 I was losing someone close to me and the line between life and death had never been closer.
Your life was being dictated by a machine, a mere line on a screen being controlled by external devices meant to mimic and withstand the human life.
I suppressed my emotions – choosing not to go to the hospital, instead of saying my last goodbye at your funeral after you had already passed.
Nearly four years later, I thought it would get easier. I thought time was supposed to heal the pain, but that turns out to be an even bigger lie I tell myself.
Time doesn't heal the pain—time has only made me more aware of the fact that you're gone. It has only made me more aware of every life event you'll never get to witness.
When I spoke at my high school graduation, I didn't anticipate that your death would be part of my speech. I didn't anticipate having to choke back the urge to cry in the middle of my high school gym on graduation day because you weren't there—because I was giving a speech centered on how your death had profoundly and deeply impacted me.
Death is so often filled with regret – filled with the "what-ifs."
What if I had spent more time with him?
What if I had known him better?
What if he didn't have a stroke?
I often sit and wonder, what you would think if you were here today?
I wonder if you would be proud of me.
I wonder what you would have said to me on my graduation day.
I wonder what you would have said to me before I left for college.
The reality of the situation, though, is that no matter how many times I wonder about these things – I'll never truly know the answer. I'll never know what it would have been like to have you there on my graduation day.
There are things I will always carry with me, though, from the all too short 16 years I knew you.
I will always remember to love and love well – to show kindness to others in all circumstances.
I will always remember to be my own person – to be who I want to be – not who others want me to be.
I hope I grow up to have the heart that you did because if I do, I'll always be able to see the beauty inside.
I'll never understand exactly why you were taken so soon, but I think I'm just going to go with Billy Joel when he belts out, "only the good die young" because you were so good, you already made the impact you needed to on this Earth.
That one phone call changed my life, and I wish you were still here today. But, sometimes, we don't get all of the answers we want or the answers we think we deserve.
A man's legacy lives on long after he's gone. And no matter how badly it hurts to think about you, I'm so glad for the legacy you left behind for not only myself but others as well.