6 years

remembering Haley King

I never imagined I’d go six entire years without seeing your face—yet here we are.

There’s a song called, “Dancing in the Sky,” and the words say,

“Tell me, what does it look like in heaven?

Is it peaceful? Is it free like they say?

Does the sun shine bright forever?

Have your fears and your pain gone away?

'Cause here on earth it feels like

everything good is missing since you left

And here on earth everything's different, there's an emptiness

I hope you're dancing in the sky

I hope you're singing in the angel's choir

I hope the angels know what they have

I'll bet it's so nice up in heaven since you arrived.”

I have a video on my phone from when we were little kids, dancing our hearts out to Justin Bieber’s first hit. The video is everything carefree and innocent and magical. You never know the power of a moment until it’s a precious memory you’re white knuckling for all it’s worth. I grip that memory so tightly, knowing that you were probably already in so much pain but that dancing, obnoxiously might I add, to “One Time,” helped you escape it all.

It’s funny how it comes back in pieces. How you don’t necessarily get to choose what your brain decides was important, and little pieces of memory come rushing back. For me, it’s moments on the beach. Riding our bikes and trying our damndest to bring as many seashells back home, even though every bump in the sand caused shells to fall through the cracks in our bikes baskets.

For me, it’s our sleepovers. When we had the wildest fun singing karaoke at the computer and making dance videos until we couldn’t breathe, and in the next moment we were having the most serious and deep conversations of my life. We were confidants. And I treasured your secrets as you treasured mine.

For me, it’s when you told me you were pregnant. The sparkle in your eyes and the crack in your voice as your nervousness and excitement all spilled out at once.

For me, it’s when I told you that you saved me. That there were very real and raw times I wanted to give up, but your existence and your story helped me hold on. You couldn’t look me in the eyes and I think it’s because it was so uncomfortable to know someone cared that much—and that you meant that much. Enough to save a life.

For me, it’s the last time I saw you. We watched the Clemson game together with the rest of the girl cousins and I held your sweet baby and nothing of importance was said and I can’t even remember whether we hugged goodbye.

For me, it was getting the news. A crisp November morning and the sun was beaming through the window, uncovering all of the dust particles flying through the air. They looked like gold flakes in the sun’s light.

That’s the last beautiful thing I remember about that day.

For me, it’s wondering what I could have said. What I would have said —had I even had the chance.

It’s the hug that I don’t remember happening.

It’s the “I love you,” that I know you already knew but that I could have said 100 times more.

It’s the “you matter,” and “today needs you,” and the “I need you.”

And in the end, I understand you. I get why you did what you did, because I’ve had days I’ve thought about it too. That everyone and everything would be better off. That I am too heavy and that I am too messy and maybe the world needs to be rid of such chaos that is my being. But those thoughts are extinguished with the power of a tsunami when I look around at what “better off” looks like without you. We are not better off— not even a single one.

You saved me once, already. And I tend to think you’ve saved me again.

Because now I know what it’s like to be on the end of losing someone to suicide, and I cannot comprehend putting any one I remotely claim to love through such turmoil.

I am not blaming you. You didn’t know, sweet girl, what would be left in your dust. But you’ve shown me and now I cannot deny that I know better.

Tomorrow needed you. and tomorrow needs me. So I pick myself up off of this floor and I’m going to go live.