Winter's Lullaby

Chapter one: The Funeral

Rain slid like liquid bullets from the sky as we marched across the sodden cemetery.

The sky was a swirling sea of dark, blooming rain clouds, soaking up any chance of bright sunlight getting through to illuminate the sorry scenery. Slick umbrellas were unfurled to deflect the icy rain as the huddle of dark clothed mourners made their way to the grave sight where a freshly new dug grave gaped in the ground like an open mouth.

The rain soon soaked through my black dress and brown hair as I stood in the crowd of people I had known all my life: Miss Jacobson, the Librarian who I had bonded with in my Freshman year of High school when I started visiting to escape from reality, was huddled next to her sisters. Her frayed white-silver streaked hair was pulled back in a soft bun, and her deep ocean blue eyes were downcast, because she had known her too. Mr. Lowell, the Veteran turned bar tender, stood under an umbrella next to his petite wife with one arm around her, listening as the priest made final prayers read aloud from his golden leafed Bible. Teachers and students from school stood among the crowd, Mr. Caplin, the history teacher, Jim Baldite that had known her because he'd shared his English class with her.

My parents stood huddled together in the middle of the crowd, mom burrowing into dad like he could make everything bad and terrible go away, and dad holding onto her hand like it was the last thing keeping him upright.

And finally, Mr. and Mrs. Moore. Mrs. Moore's face was covered in streaming mascara and tears. She pressed a napkin to her mouth to try and muffle her sobs, but only the pounding of the rain slightly covered up her grief. Her black hair was wild, looped in a bun in pretty curves, but the pins keeping it all nice and neat were coming undone, so strands of it were hanging down her back and shoulders in wild, untamed waves. Mr. Moore kept his arm around her, normally so in charge and calm about things, tears were sliding down his face as he held his wife close, looking lost and not knowing what to do, who to turn to for help.

I felt a deep, spiraling ache echo in my heart when I looked at them. All these people I had known all my life, who I had grown up with, with her. With Madison.

 The priest said his final words, ending with a gentle Amen as he softly shut his Bible. The dark-clothed mourners formed into a line around the grave as the coffin that contained my best friend was lowered into the ground. The crowd thinned as people tossed a handful of dirt into the grave before walking away. A last goodbye, nothing but a handful of dirt sprinkled back to the earth from whence it came.

Maybe that's how life was. We were born. We could choose to live or lives to the fullest or wither away unremembered, make our mark on the world or leave nothing behind. Live. Die.

Maybe, in our deepest hearts, we were just living, breathing stories. Tallying up all our experiences and journeys, the things we've seen, and the things we want to see. The hardships we have endured and survived, the stories of how we have reached out to others with advice and helped them survive their own hardships. The changes we have seen, and how we have to come to learn who we are. All the crazy and beautiful spins of our life, the good and the bad.

Maybe you were the story you wanted to be.

But all I can think of right now is how Madison's story ended too soon. She should've seen the world, traveled on metal constructed boats through glazed waters, or soarn through a sky in an airplane to some unknown destination that would've held new discoveries for her. She should've had the chance to cross out all the list of things she wanted to do in her life.

But she didn't, and now I am left here alone with only the memory of her laugh and smile, the way she tackled adventures with a love none could describe, the way her eyes lit up whenever she talked about traveling to all the places she wanted to see in life.