Her Dad wore a red Millennium Falcon shirt and her blue
jeweled lanyard around his neck. Her Mom sat across from him with hollow eyes.
“There’s too much noise in my head,” she said.
It’s hard to watch parents grieve. It’s harder when you knew
their only daughter and thought that maybe someday, she’d be a part of your
family.
Melissa died on Friday morning holding my brother’s hand.
Everything happened all at once and in agonizing slow
motion. An early morning phone call, a race to the hospital, a candle-light vigil,
and cardboard boxes in the living room of things she bought with us.
She spent the summer here - eating pizza, going to the
beach, playing card games, and watching Star Wars. She just fit.
One evening, we ventured to the beach at sunset to take group
pictures. I stopped the photoshoot to run over to her. I grabbed her cheeks and
yelled, “Can we all just take a minute to look at how beautiful Melissa is
right now?” She smiled shyly and I turned around as my brother gave her a quick
kiss.
I will always remember her, just standing there, glowing in
the late afternoon sun.
Melissa Kennon was striking and smart, gentle and
adventurous. She had curly blonde hair, a dimpled smile, and she always wore
high-waisted jean shorts. She collected vinyl records and wanted to study
neuropsychology. She had a dog named Oliver and she loved her sorority sisters.
Today, we met with her parents for coffee and made plans for
Thanksgiving. It’s bittersweet to gain another family without the one member
who brought you together.
My Dad hugged me in the parking and cried into my ear, “You
are my Melissa.”
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.