Loss.

Unfathomable and unexpected loss.

This isn't a "coming up short during a football game" loss. This isn't a "maybe I can find it between the couch cushions" loss. This is real loss, something intangible that cannot be found or returned. This is what it feels like to lose something to an unyielding and unforgiving force.

I was 16 years old when I had the misfortune of getting to know Death. I quickly discovered that he had no regard for the chaos and pain that was left behind in the wake of his destruction and that he made no exceptions.

I remember Tyler vividly. I remember his warm, brown eyes and his crooked, boyish smile and the way he pressed his lips into a thin line when he played soccer. I remember his white shoes with the two Velcro straps that he wore all throughout eighth grade. I remember the way he drove our theatre teacher insane by constantly undoing and redoing the straps on those white shoes. I remember that time he and Ben jumped from desk to desk, all the way across the classroom, just to get to the door and how cool I felt when he said "hey" to me in front of all of his friends on my first day of high school, even though he was in the grade above me. And I remember sitting in a black dress at his funeral. I tied my hair back with a blue ribbon, as did every other girl sitting with mascara stained cheeks in the wooden pews. One by one, his best friends took to the podium and spoke about Tyler.

There was so much to be said about the boy with brown eyes.

I couldn't stop thinking about his girlfriend. I couldn't stop thinking about his parents, brother and his best friends. I thought about the kids that were with him the night the ATV flipped. I thought about the teammates that he left behind, and I thought about how I hoped to never have to sit through the funeral of a friend again.

We were just kids; kids that had to deal with something no one could have prepared us for. But we learned how to cope. We learned to talk about our feelings, and we learned that it was okay to be weak, and we learned to hug strangers, and tell each other that we love one another. Someone told me that Tyler's last words to his mother were "I love you," and I will never forget that. What a beautiful legacy to leave behind—a legacy of love.

And now I find myself in a black dress again, three years later, allowing streaks of mascara to stain my cheeks, as does every other girl sitting in the wooden pews. I find myself reevaluating what I've said and what I've done and what death means at 19. Death is destructive and uncaring, but it is life-altering. It seems that it is the unknown we fear when faced with death and darkness, but in reality we should fear what ensues. We should fear remaining complacent. We should fear the monotony of life that we had previously accepted as a norm. We should fear valuing success and material things at the expense of happiness, joy and experience. We should fear not allowing ourselves the joy and liberty that love can bring. Allow yourself to seize the day, and put your whole heart into everything, for those who have a zealous passion for life and those that squeeze every last ounce of joy out of every day are the very ones that will look back at the time they spent on earth without a single regret.

Through death, I've learned many things. I've discovered that if I feel something, I should let it be known. I've noticed that happiness comes from the small nuances that litter day-to-day life. I've found that kindness is not equated with weakness and should be practiced often. Most importantly, I've discovered that it's difficult for death to truly take anyone away, because there are always slivers of their soul left within people's memories. If they had never existed, if they had never set foot on this earth, things would not be the same. And through every interaction, every encounter they had, a shared memory was created. Whether it was menial or monumental, those memories and moments created a space in which part of someone will always continue to be. Memories never die.

I saw Haley every day. She lived two floors below me and had blonde, short hair. She was so petite you didn't want to hug her too hard for fear you'd break her, and she was smarter and more independent than most people you'd meet. She was observant and liked to sit back and take everything in and if you ask anyone what they'll remember most about her they'll say her stories. And what a beautiful thing to leave behind; people never forget stories.

Rest in peace Haley. You've cast a light in which people can reflect on who they are and what it truly means to be alive, and because you existed, I have now changed for the better.