“One potato…

….two potato…

…three!”

Braced for the horrific flavor, I drank the disturbingly bright pink cold medicine all in one sip. The poor excuse for bubblegum-flavored medicine sent chills down my spine as it slid down to my stomach. I grimaced, looking up at her beaming face for approval.

“Good job, Val! You did so well, you can have a candy, if you want.”

Of course, I wanted it.

The night of Thursday, Nov. 12, 2015 did not go how I expected at all. I expected to come home from the football game, change out of my cheerleading uniform, shower and head straight to bed.

That night, this was not the case. That night, nothing was normal.

I hadn’t even changed out of my uniform before I heard a soft knock on my bedroom door. My mother stood in the doorframe, a vaguely pleasant look plastered on her face. It was a fake smile; that much was obvious.

But why?

“Honey, I need to talk to you… You’d better sit down.”

This was the morning I decided I hated funerals.

Dressed in a navy blue sweater, black skirt, black flats that were two sizes too small and my knee brace, I entered the church with my family. The chilling touch of grief pulled us in, dragged us through the halls and sat us in a neat row, one by one, in the third pew from the front.

I avoided the coffin at all costs. I couldn’t bear to look the grim reaper in his ugly face, especially not when he had temporarily taken the shape of someone I loved. I was only 13; I was too young for this kind of thing.

I didn’t understand death. In my young mind, death was something that happened to old people and people with cancer. Not a healthy 23-year-old woman who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Every birthday party. Every babysitting session. Every new Barbie toy and Disney princess movie, she was there.

I never thought she wouldn’t be there to fill her role.

Maybe that’s why her passing struck me so hard; I had never considered the fact that she might not be on Earth until the end of time.

How naive.

The service was beautiful and immensely difficult to make it through. I wept silently next to my father, asking the universe why this had to happen.

At the end of the funeral, the mourners were led outside the church, where a man had a group of doves perched in a cage next to him. He read out scripture, spoke politely on the deceased’s behalf and opened the cage door. One by one, the birds began to fly. They flew in circles around the church, then off to an unknown destination.

I felt the rage directed toward God, the universe, fate and everything else fly away with the doves. All I was left with was grief.

That lonely shadow, following me wherever I go. Reminding me there is now a hole left behind that no one could ever fill quite the same way she did.

Her parents handed out packets of wildflower seeds at her funeral. When I planted the seeds in my garden and watched them grow, I realized life will go on. It has to.

It just takes a while to get there.