"Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close."

My new favorite book is about a little boy named Oskar whose father dies in the World Trade attack. For the next year he travels around New York City searching for the lock to a key that belonged to his father. But soon, more than anything, the search turns into a healing journey for his own life. Through each stranger Oskar encounters, he begins to comprehend his father's death and slowly processes his own grief. Though it's a fictional story, seeing through the eyes of a 9-year-old also living with deep grief was moving and inspiring. I found myself crying and laughing at the same time at his quirky yet compassionate descriptions.

Oskar is an inventor. He is very imaginative and always creating new inventions in his head. In one chapter, he invents a machine for ambulances...

"What about a device that knew everyone you knew? So when an ambulance went down the street, a big sign on the roof could flash
DON’T WORRY! DON’T WORRY!
if the sick person’s device didn’t detect the device of someone he knew nearby. And if the device did detect the device of someone he knew, the ambulance could flash the name of the person in the ambulance, and either
IT’S NOTHING MAJOR! IT’S NOTHING MAJOR!
Or, if it was something major,
IT’S MAJOR! IT’S MAJOR!
And maybe you could rate the people you knew by how much you loved them, so if the person in the ambulance detected the device of the person he loved the most, or the person who loved him the most, and the person in the ambulance was really badly hurt, and might even die, the ambulance could flash
GOODBYE! I LOVE YOU! GOODBYE! I LOVE YOU!
One thing that’s nice to think about is someone who was the first person on lot’s of people’s lists, so that when he was dying, and his ambulance went down the streets to the hospital, the whole time it would flash
GOODBYE! I LOVE YOU! GOODBYE! I LOVE YOU!"

And another invention:

"In bed that night I invented a special drain that would be underneath every pillow in New York, and would connect to the reservoir. Whenever people cried themselves to sleep, the tears would all go to the same place, and in the morning the weatherman could report if the water level of the Reservoir of Tears had gone up or down, and you could know if New York is in heavy boots."

These are my two favorite passages of the book. For one, I can only imagine that Micah's ambulance would have shouted GOODBYE I LOVE YOU! for many, many hours straight...and to many, many people. Maybe it also would have shouted THANKS FOR MAKING MY LIFE SO FUN!...and PLEASE KEEP HAVING FUN FOR ME, IT WOULD MAKE ME HAPPY! Or maybe PEACE OUT HOMIES, IT'S BEEN REAL!

I also love the idea of the Reservoir of Tears.
Lately my Reservoir of Tears is at low-tide, which is good. Being surrounded by friends and family has been great and I'm so thankful for the supportive community around me. As I told a friend lately, I feel like my soul is being filled up with energy like a gas tank.

Bittersweet.

Everything is bittersweet.
I've stepped back into this crazy world
Where memories of you are accompanied by an absence of you--
And I don't know if I should laugh or cry.

This evening we gathered around your grave and sang,
And then watched as 19 balloons lifted into the sky,
Spinning away until they were just tiny dots on the horizon.

Later we gathered in your living room and
Laughed as your baby videos flickered on the TV screen.
I can't help but think of what a joy you must have been
To your parents 19 years ago, their first baby boy
Bundled up in a hospital blanket and blinking at the new world
Around him.

When the movies ended we sat in a biting silence
That filled the room, each of us knowing that we
Were thinking how wonderful it would be to see you
Alive and laughing, just one more time, like in those clips.
And how shockingly-wrong it was to celebrate your life
But not have you there.

Last night on the long drive home
I saw a shooting star fall across the sky
And I couldn't help but remember the star we both witnessed
Falling over the ocean as we flew to Germany.

My memories of you, of us together, have filled me with gratitude
And I am so blessed by your life. I want to bottle that star and
Save it for later, just to remind myself of the beauty
You've shown me and the twinkling hope you'd want me to have,
Even amongst the dark sadness.

Finals week, here I come.

It will be a push to get through this last week and a half of stress, late nights, and finals. I can already feel myself losing energy, focus, and sanity...

But my motivation is that when is that it's all done, I'm homeward bound again; and this time it's for a good long time. And I will finally be surrounded by the friends and family that I need.

However, the holidays are looming in the distance, and for the first time in my life I'm actually dreading for them to come...who would've imagined I'd ever actually dread a holiday?
It's just that Micah won't be here.
And next week will be his birthday.
And around this time last year, we were preparing to go to Germany together...
Everything is just a jumble of mixed-feelings and my insides are turning. Part of me just wants to fast-forward it all so I don't have to feel anything.

But all-in-all, I'm ready to step back into the world of grief that home is, though it will be difficult. I'm ready to feel 100% "into" it again, whereas at college I've been numbing it to some extent, in order to survive. And most of all I'm ready to just be in the world Micah lived in, because if anything that will be comforting in itself.

Missing.

I miss you.

I don't know where to go to tell you that, so I'll just write it here and hope that those three words will find you; and that you are happy and warm and pain-free and loved and comfortable and laughing and energetic and bouncing-off-the-walls-hyper and giggly and creating mischief and over-eating and dancing obnoxiously and making people smile and just plain being...yourself.

I'm sick in bed with the flu.

I'm remembering last year when I stayed home from school sick one day, and Micah came to visit me. He came into my room and plopped down at the side of my bed, and then with a little smirk pulled out a tub of Ben&Jerry's ice cream. I laughed and we sat there and ate it together. Surprisingly it worked, because I really did feel better after his little visit.

This morning in bed, I pretended that Micah was sitting next to me.
The fever still persisted, but I did feel a little better. (Maybe I should be eating some ice cream too?)

At least being sick has given me some time to relax and think...
I pulled out a book of poetry by Wendell Berry and paged through it for awhile...

-----
Some Sunday afternoon, it may be,
you are sitting under your porch roof,
looking down through the trees
to the river, watching the rain. The circles
made by the raindrops' striking
expand, intersect, dissolve,

and suddenly (for you are getting on
now, and much of your life is memory)
the hands of the dead, who have been here
with you, rest upon you tenderly
as the rain rests shining
upon the leaves. And you think then

(for thought will come) of the strangeness
of the thought of Heaven, for now
you have imagined yourself there,
remembering with longing
this happiness, this rain. Sometimes
here we are there, and there is no death.

-Wendell Berry

Seven.

I know our time together is no more.
Then why do words come to mind that call you back?
Why do I plan lifetimes that include you?


With you comes the pain that makes me long for solitude. But with solitude comes the loneliness that longs for you--I'm trapped here in this circle.

Strength?

I can't sleep. I've been laying in bed for hours and my mind is on Micah. Images are vivid in my mind and they won't go away...I'm nauseous and spinning.

"Becca, you are so strong." "You are so brave." "You just have so much strength."

Really? I hear this often but I don't see the truth. Because deep down I feel like a baby. I am weak and melting and hurting and shy. I know what it feels like to collapse onto a bathroom floor and yell at God. I know what it feels like to watch the sun rise after nothing but hours of nightmares and screams. I know what it feels like to be fragile and sensitive every second of the day, to everything in existence. I know pain and suffering and anger firsthand--am I really that "strong"?

I didn't ask to be in this situation. Does the mere fact that I have even been put in it create the illusion of strength? Does even "surviving" this far signify something to that effect? Maybe others just don't know what to say, and that's all they can sympathize with--that survival must mean strength exists somewhere?

I don't know. Sometimes I think I would better appreciate someone flat out telling me I am a weakling who has not one ounce of strength. Really? You think I'm weak? Thank you so so much, because truthfully, that's exactly how I've felt these past six months...how did you know?!

Grief is exhausting. I don't see how anyone is supposed to be strong all the time, anyway. I think it takes both weakness and strength to even get through one day--there's a perfect balance somewhere in there. Even one second can be a split between the two. One second, I'll think to myself, "Wow. I'm really sad and weak right now." So I'll validate that sadness and tell it that it can sit there for a little bit--because in reality, it really does deserve to be there. But then I'll close my eyes, gather a little strength deep down from the inside of my being (from God or maybe even Micah's love, I have yet to figure out where it comes from), and use that strength to ride out the weakness. Then it repeats, and repeats, and repeats; all day long--a daily cycle of waves of both sadness and happiness, weakness and strength.

So maybe I am a weakling of daily strengths.
And one day I might be a strength made of daily weaknesses...
But for now this is okay--and all I can do.

Now that my thoughts have escaped from this crazy brain of mine, maybe I can sleep. Love, and goodnight.

Six.

We stand in a circle in a middle of a field; our breath white in the frigid air; the rain falling softly around us, onto the wet grass. The moon shines brightly and illuminates our flickering candles; and soon our voices rise from soft to loud, until music bounces off the walls of the surrounding buildings...

I remember the moon six months ago. When I got home from the hospital, dazed and devastated, I stepped outside to take in the night sky. There was the moon, full and bright; even though the world felt so dark and lonely. I looked up at it, and closed my eyes and cried and cried. Then I went inside and collapsed into an eternity of sleep...

It's been six months since that night. Six months of tears, no sleep, no energy, no appetite, no Becca. Yet it has also been six months of laughter, bonding, learning, searching, finding. In a crazy way, I've never felt more alive. My eyes have been opened to what it feels like to truly live--to appreciate the fragility but beauty of life.

And through it all I also realize that the only reason I've made it this far is because of the depth of our relationship and love. If we hadn't been so close, I think I would have lost it a long time ago. Yes, because we loved deeply, I grieve deeply--but at the same time, because we loved deeply, I am able to live deeply the way Micah would want me to. I want our love to be visible in that sense. I hope that people have been able to recognize that it has been love that has kept me "strong" even though it's also so easy to fall apart. I made a promise to Micah in the hospital that night, that I will live for him; and I want this promise to far outlast the sense of sadness in my heart.

Not to say there is nothing to be sad about today.
No, that is certainly not the case, for today was draining and heartbreaking; and, like everyday, I woke up and felt the reality and wanted to scream and sleep forever. This should never have happened. This day did not need to exist. It should have been just any normal Monday night; and the 8th should have passed by without any of us noticing. We should have gone to bed and never be woken up. We should have slept without doubting, as Micah would say, that everything was "all good in the hood." We should have risen in the morning and gone to school and never even imagined such a nightmare could have happened...
Micah should be here to laugh and live, and six months cannot remove the feeling of wrongness, shock, and emptiness. There is still so much to grieve for--for Micah's family, for Micah's friends, for Micah and me, and most of all, for Micah. The wrongness of it just seems to intensify as time goes on--I don't think time can ever truly heal that.

And yet, even though he is gone, I seem to love him more every day. As I interact with people here at college, my love for Micah grows even stronger, because I realize how wonderful he was and how much he has impacted me, both alive and not-alive. Micah brought me to life. He taught me how to have fun. He taught me how to casually love others, even through seemingly boring daily activities. He taught me how to not stress over tiny things. He taught me how to worship freely, with no reservations. He taught me how to forgive. He taught me how to laugh freely. He taught me how to love another person so deeply that even if they mess up, they can be welcomed with a warm hug and an understanding smile...

So today I cry for Micah; but I also offer a toast from the depths of my heart. To the crazy boy in middleschool with monkey ears and a loud mouth; yet the boy who caught my eye from the very beginning. To a goofball that could make me laugh in half a second. To years of friendship that turned into a deep love of understanding and supporting eachother. To laughing together, crying together, spending hours talking together; stargazing on the trampoline, tickle wars, Germany dutch blitz tournaments, over-eating at restaurants, creek stomping, thrifting, hugs on tip-toes, movie nights, naps at the park, failing math, "knock-on-wood", Rita's, "poopstains", Pogo barks, babysitting forts, "pound-it," tubing, "wowie," treehouses...
The adventures we have shared between the two of us have filled my heart with memories that I will always cherish. I thank God for you and the blessing you've been to my life.

To Micah, who will always be my boyfriend, who will always make me smile, who will always be a part of me. I love you forever. Thank you for making me who I am today, and being with me as I form myself for tomorrow and the days, years to come.

...the singing ends, and our candles are burnt down to the wicks. We look up from the hymnals and gaze around the circle. Then, someone pipes up, and breaks the silence. "Can we sing an upbeat song?" "Yes, yes, let's do it!" we agree. "But we have to sing it really loud!" someone else suggests..."because Micah was really loud!"
So we sing, loud and clear, so that Micah can hear; an upbeat song with a beautiful harmony and a pounding rhythm...

and the moon smiles down on us, and as I close my eyes, I truly think Micah can hear. I think he is smiling too.

A dream, and the the brain.

Last night I had a dream that Micah was lying down with his head in my lap; and I was playing with his hair, which somehow had become very curly. His head was very fragile, with bruises and stitch-marks, and I could tell that his nose had been broken. I remember kissing him on the forehead and telling him how glad I was that he survived the accident.

Learning about the brain in my Psychology class this week has been difficult to sit through. Many people speak casually about end-of-life decisions, unconsciousness, and brain damage; but I sit there with my heart beating fast, trying to remain calm and collected, knowing I have a personal experience many others don't have. My studies have made me realize how fragile the brain is; and how each tiny part contributes significantly to the overall function. Thinking about Micah's brain damage in this context gives me a sinking feeling, knowing how damaged he was and truly how irreversible the injuries were. Yet at the same time I wonder what he would have been like, had he lived....my mind wanders there sometimes--but it is a very difficult and painful thing to think of, because I can't imagine Micah in any way but his normal, upbeat, hyper, happy, active self.

Baby.

One of those days in the hospital (I don't remember which), I was sitting in the waiting room near Micah's room when a woman came in with a baby. She ended up putting it in my arms to hold for several minutes. The baby lay face up in my lap, looking at me with big eyes and staring up at my face, fixated and intrigued. I stared back and hugged it close, smiling through my tears; wondering how a new life could still be growing up, while Micah was slowly losing his, only yards away.

This memory popped into my head today as I walked past a group of children playing. It reminded me of how Micah always told me I'd make a great mom some day.

I hope that baby has grown up well over these past 5 months. I wonder if it'll ever know that it brought me even the slightest bit of joy during a miserable and painful time.

I am doing things here at college to make Micah happy. I joined an intramural soccer team, which he would love. I am going to maybe join a gospel choir. I went swing dancing in the rain. I salsa danced with friends late into midnight. I stargazed on a blanket until the sprinklers came on and we ran away. I made cookies and delivered them to people. I am going to quilt with cute old ladies, and learn how to knit. I am writing for the newspaper. I am greeting people in Micah-like ways, wearing outfits Micah would like, eating food Micah would eat, telling jokes Micah would tell, getting involved like Micah would do, saying phrases Micah would say...sometimes I even catch myself writing in Micah-like handwriting.

Micah can't be at college, but I will be at college for him. I can feel him here cheering me on and telling me to live fully. I can feel the warmth of his hugs and hear the sound of his voice. I can imagine the sun lighting up his green eyes and him throwing back his head as he laughs.

All these things carry me on from one day to the next. My goal for this year is to live for Micah and love for Micah, because that is how he remains a part of me, strong in my heart.

College.

Well, here I am. After years and years of wondering what college will be like, here I sit in the dark of my dorm, feeling somewhat tiny and lost, realizing I could never even imagine I would be here amidst such a situation.

Where did summer go? What happened to flowers and bare feet and warmth? What happened to those long days of misery, but at least misery accompanied by friends, family, and sunshine?

How will I survive as the seasons change? It used to just get warmer and warmer as each anniversary went by, but now the leaves are changing and the air is getting crisp. Will I too freeze into a rock of a Becca-that-used-to-be? Will I ever be able to feel normal enough to laugh freely like the rest of the students here? Will I survive the ugly cold to come? How long can I stay in a place where no one knows the warmth of my beautiful, lovable Micah?

I want everyone to know him, but know him just because its Micah. Not because he died. I just want him to be my boyfriend. And like the other girls here who have boyfriends far away, I want him to call me every night and send me letters and skype me and tell me about his soccer game and newly-found friends...
I want to see his dorm room and his sloppily-made bed and his handwriting on (probably procrastinated) essays. I want to talk to him and complain about homework together and tell him I had a bad day so he can make it better.

I'm tired of being the girl who has to explain to innocent bystanders that, yes, that is my boyfriend and I love him so incredibly much, but no, its a long story because this April he...he...well, he died in a car accident...and...(tries to suppress tears as the person's mouth drops open and attempts to find words of sympathy.)

It's so so so so unfair.
5 months coming up. I don't know what I'm going to do.

My boyfriend is dead and 9 hours away. What if he needs my comfort? What if he needs me but I'm so far away? Who will sit with him and pretend to hold his hand? Even the seasons will change by his side, but I cannot be there to watch them.

I'm being brave and having fun, because Micah would have wanted that for me, but when it comes down to it I'm still so heartbroken and devastated and wish this were all a dream.

Last night in my dreams, Micah was sitting at my kitchen table eating a bowl of cheerios. I ran up to him and hugged him from behind, and he laughed and I laughed and then we were both laughing there together in the kitchen, hugging. It was such a happy moment.

Sometimes the cloud lifts and I fully comprehend how bad this is.
I can't believe Micah is not here and I will never see him again. It's something I cannot warp my mind around. Sometimes it makes me question his existence to begin with. I have these amazing memories of this incredible, warm, happy, bright time in my life; where I laughed and loved and lived...and I have all the pictures, messages, clothing, documents to prove it. Yet how can the origin of this be taken away so quickly, and the things around it remain so strong? How can I have everything else but the one person that brought everything else? I can't comprehend that.

I carry your heart with me.

"i carry your heart with me"
a poem by ee cummings.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go, you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of the tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the starts apart

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart).

micah, i carry your heart with me.

Lately.

Lately I have been sadder than words can express. I'm positive that the phrase "time will help" is a lie. Time does not help. The only thing time does is make everything more real, which ultimately makes it feel worse...
It is feeling real that Micah is not here...more real than before. I went college shopping today and it made me feel devastated. My mom and I cried together the whole way home.

I went to the library yesterday and I laughed at myself because I practically rented out the whole "grief" section...(I wonder what the poor librarian was thinking.) I've got one book down and 10 or so more to go...hopefully I'll find some things to be helpful.

I found this poem a couple months ago in a book. Despite its simplicity it says a lot...
"Separation" by W.S. Merwin:

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

Now that April feels decades away, I'm feeling myself thinking less about the actual accident and death, and more about Micah's absence. The details of the funeral and hospital seem to be fading in my memory; but nothing can ever possibly subdue the feeling of not having him here. It is the biggest, gaping hole. I would give absolutely anything to hear his laugh or see his smile...even a quick glimpse from 500 feet away might be sufficient. When he was alive I would miss him tremendously if he was just away for a weekend--so this feels like a piece of me has been literally ripped from my heart.

Some days, I'll just be wandering around my house and I'll get the biggest craving ever for a Micah hug. He was an expert on bear hugs--a.k.a. squeezing me so hard I couldn't breath and I'd have to practically wheeze "stop!" (Gosh, I even miss those.) His normal hugs were perfect as well--we always talked about how our height ratio was perfect, because my head fit perfectly on his shoulder.

Not like his hugs are the only thing I miss. That is only one thing on the list of 2937495084523. But then again, there are 2937495084523 reasons I love him...so naturally I expect that list to be long, if not endless. :-)

Cleaning my room.

I did something monumental today--I cleaned my room.

You must understand that this indeed is very, very monumental; as my family will agree. Keeping my room clean is something I have never done, ever. I am a pack rat, and disorganized, and a little lazy to top it all off...so basically my room has a history of never seeing the floor. When Micah died, this became even worse. I hated moving anything in my room because that meant changing how Micah last saw it, and changing how the "old" Becca last lived. It was like a sacred archaeological site I didn't dare touch. This also became very convenient because since April I have slept in one room with my sisters, and I didn't need to keep clean/change my room, because I wasn't living in it. And thus it became a sacred place where I could go and cry and be alone, even though I was basically sitting on top of 3 months worth of dirty laundry and clutter.

But...for some reason I spent this afternoon completely cleaning it. I guess I realized that I had to do it sometime, especially with college approaching. Also, an image of Micah popped into my head...him looking me straight in the eye and saying, "Seriously Becca. Just cause I died doesn't mean you can live like a filthy pig." So maybe it was Micah that kicked some common sense into me.

I found many things on my cleaning adventure.
(One of them was the floor--that was really nice to be able to walk again.)
I picked up clothes...pajama pants I wore in the hospital. The sweatshirt I wore the first night; that I don't dare to wash. The shirt I wore to the funeral.
I picked up flower petals, long wilted, that had fallen onto the carpet--that first week my mom had put a vase on my desk, to bring desperate happiness.
I picked up used tissues that were scattered everywhere, all over. I put them in one pile, and together they formed a giant stack that was probably half a foot high.
I found reminders of his absences, that brought pain rushing back--my banquet dress box...a letter from EMU...the funeral program that I shoved away because it was too hard to look at.

Though luckily I also found some happy things, and those kept me going.
Like how every piece of clothing in my closet, I could basically associate a memory of Micah with. (I wore this shirt on my first date...and this sweater in Munich...and this was the shirt we bought together in Lititz...Micah wore this shirt once and it took him forever to return...Micah said I looked pretty in this...)
I found several notes Micah had once written to me, that I had forgotten about. Those were fun to discover and read. It was like a little personal surprise from him. They made me smile a lot.
I found the scavenger hunt notebook Micah had mapped out for me, when he asked me to banquet last year.
I found some notes from a class in school we had together; and half the page consists of our boredom doodles and tic-tac-toe.
I found a pair of socks Micah claimed were "his," which I argued strongly against because I was sure they were mine--and every time I wore them I would taunt them in his face because I still had possession of them.
I found one of my school pictures, clearly not one of my best ones, that Micah found once and laughed at for 5 minutes because he thought I looked hilarious.

...and the memories go on. It's sad to know my room has changed; but like I said before, I don't see why Micah would have wanted it to stay like that. The memories far outweigh the sadness of cleaning.

Tomorrow I'm volunteering at Camp Ladybug, a camp for adults and children with physical/mental disabilities. I am excited. This is something I've been wanting to do for myself, but also for Micah. I can remember how excited he was to work with some special-needs campers at Camp Hebron; and how he connected so deeply with them. I think he would smile knowing I am doing this, and I also think he would want to see me smile as well.

3 months.

I woke up this morning to the phrase "3 months" running through my head over and over again. I put my blanket over my head and squeezed my eyes together and laid there in bed for a good 10 minutes. (As if that would somehow make the morning come slower and ultimately delay the day.) But I soon found out that was impossible, because the sun slowly rose and birds began to chirp, and I realized that the rest of the world was continuing, so I might as well try.

Today marks 3 months.
These past days have been especially difficult, because this month they land perfectly on each of the "original" days. Meaning that the day of the accident (the 6th[though technically it was past midnight]), the "in-between life and death day" (the 7th), and the day of his death (the 8th) have all lined up on Monday-Wednesday. This has made me relive everything in detail, and my mind wanders back to where and what I was doing exactly--even down to what I was wearing. It feels so fresh and so new, even 91 days later. I can even still feel that terrible feeling of utter helplessness; my heart beating (practically hyperventilating) and my hands shaking, trying to hold onto something in my spinning world but finding nothing; so scared and so tiny and so paralyzed. Those feelings come back instantly, as do smells of the hospital and memories of doctors' faces.

Monday was especially hard. I sat in my room and just thought how 3 months ago that day, I was innocently sitting at school; in some classes even sitting next to Micah. I just can't believe how I casually said goodbye to Micah, came home, did homework, and innocently went to bed. I can't believe how I had no idea that I would soon be woken up by my dad and everything would change so quickly.

I wish I could have warned that naive Becca about what was to come. I try not to spend much time thinking how the accident could have been prevented--(I just don't let myself go there because I know it turns into a cycle)--but I do sometimes wish I could somehow let myself know what was to come. Maybe if my current Becca could have sent just one teensy warning flag to the Becca-of-the-past that night...would that have made things easier? Would it have made this 3 month anniversary and other anniversaries to come a little more bearable, just because we would have known?

Oh, but maybe not. Maybe knowing all along what was to come would have been worse. Maybe its just going to be terrible no matter what; and I'm thinking in circles and forgetting that either way Micah is not here, and THAT right there is what's wrong and will always be wrong.

Micah Micah Micah. I miss you so much. I think of all the things we could have done in these 3 months, but instead I am listing things we haven't done. Musical, banquet, the last day of school, graduation, convention...spending all summer together. Doing the random things that brought us so much joy; though in the end it was just the fact that we were doing them together. Stargazing and going to the beach and watching 4th of July fireworks and talking on the phone and holding hands and hanging out with your family and going shopping and catching fireflies and laughing and loving. You are supposed to be here soaking in the quietness of this summer night. You are supposed to be sleeping in your bed right now with the night air blowing around your attic room and the crickets chirping outside. We are supposed to be doing all these summer things together.

But you are not here. I know you are here somewhere; maybe you are around me; or maybe you are now within beauty and love and happiness, and you cannot ever truly leave unless they do--but that is not as fulfilling sometimes as just plain "here." I think you know that I have been taking what you've taught me, and using it in my own life to somehow continue to "live"...but I also think that you'd understand that on days like today, on anniversaries, its extra ok to cry and be sad that you are not here.

Sympathy cards.

Sympathy cards don't know anything.

They don't know
That he could wiggle his ears.
That he had a mole on the back of his neck.
That his voice was slightly husky, and for some reason he didn't like the sound of it recorded on tape.
That his toes were scrunched together from years of running around in soccer cleats.
That he had a tiny scar on his upper lip, and a mole near his chin.
That he bit his nails so they were always short.
That when he yawned he would literally say the word "yawn" as he stretched.
That he would sing to himself on the phone and not realize it.
That when he held my hand he couldn't be still, so his fingers would wiggle around excessively.
That he hated loose change, so he would always give me his extra coins to keep.
That when he didn't shave his face, he would tickle me with his stubble like "his dad used to do."
That when he got mad, really mad, he would become very quiet.
That he was trying to teach himself piano and guitar.
That when he touched his pimples I would yell at him because it would "make it worse," and he'd tell me I reminded him of his mother.
That he loved thunderstorms at night.
That he told me he couldn't sleep with socks on.
That he liked to make beats and rhythms on anything available: desks, his legs--my stomach.
That he was ticklish on the back of his leg, but that was really about it.
That every morning he'd greet me with a hug, but if he forgot, he'd promise he'd make it up with an extra big one the next day.


...No, I know they have good intent, but sympathy cards don't know anything.

Senior week.

GRRRRR! Right now its 3:03 in the morning, and I'm in an angry mood. I'm so angry that Micah is dead. I'm so angry my life is like this. I'm so angry that this is still happening---can't it be over already? Can't he just come back now? It's been long enough without him and I don't have patience right now to "wait for everything to get better." I want Micah back and I'm just ANGRY. Grrr.

I think I'm losing my tolerance for watching other couples. Up until this point I've told myself I'm okay about it, but I think I'm just plain lying to myself. Especially here at the beach for senior week, young couples seem to pop out at me like never before. Strolling on the beach, holding hands, sitting in cute restaurants and laughing, staring romantically into eachother's eyes...smiles on their faces like they've never experienced any difficulties before. I find myself getting so angry that they have it so good. And not even that, but they don't know they have it so good. Can't you see that one of you could be dead? Can't you see that you're taking for granted the simplest, most everyday things that I yearn for so much now? If you knew it'd be the last time he held your hand, would you hold it a little tighter? If you knew his last "goodnight" would last for the rest of your lifetime, would you cherish it more, appreciate every second?

Why is the worst most possible thing that could happen to a couple happening to me? Why us, of all people? We were so innocent and still so young--but we had so much of a future. We were so in love, even though that cheesy statement doesn't seem to cover it. If it was so unbelievably good, so perfect for both of us, why did it have to change so quickly into such a nightmare?

How could both of our futures be so drastically changed in a matter of several seconds? That is the question I ask that makes me want to scream and bang my fists against the floor like a little girl tantrum, because it's not fair.

It is 3:55. I need to sleep. I'm still angry, but maybe sleep will bring a new perspective, at least for now.

Home again.

Phew. Home from Chicago. It was fun, but it was exhausting. It made me realize that driving 10+ hours to Illinois and surrounding myself with complete strangers does not make the grief go away. Its like I'm carrying my own U-Haul of grief behind me, wherever I go...I can't escape it--even if I wanted to! Also, it was weird to realize that somehow the world is still moving on---and mostly everyone does not even know who Micah is, let alone that he died. Sometimes I find myself getting angry at strangers for not knowing, but I guess that's not fair to them. Think of how many people die daily, and I don't stop my life for them. But still...in my opinion, the whole WORLD should be stopped and EVERYONE should be crying.

The one thing about the long drive was that I got to think--a lot. I taped Micah's senior picture to my window, so I just sat there and looked at him. It made a lot of memories resurface, which is always good. Here's some things I remembered. I made a list.

10 Random Facts About Micah.
1. Micah's favorite color was brown, he once told me. (But maybe he was just saying that because I have brown eyes and he was trying to win me over...)

2. Micah's ideal outfit to wear was a t-shirt (preferably gray), loose jeans, and sandals. Always the sandals. Yes, even in the middle of winter. This is why I am not in the least bit surprised that Micah was wearing sandals during the accident.

3. Micah's ideal outfit for a girl to wear was, ironically, the ideal outfit for him to wear: jeans, a t-shirt, and sandals. One time we told each other our "ideal outfits for the opposite sex," and the next day we both wore them to school, for each other. I forget what mine was, except that I told him to spike his hair. Sure enough, the next day Micah walked into school with gelled hair. What a cutie.

4. Micah liked to over-analyze. We always said that I was the indecisive one, while he was the over-analyzer. I guess he just liked to think through things in his head. Lucky for me, he was very decisive. Still, I think it was a stretch for him to date me, because I really didn't care what we did on dates, whereas Micah liked to know things ahead of time. He would always say, "BECCA! BE DECISIVE!"Haha, he always had patience for me.

5. Micah loved to eat. I mean, who doesn't, but Micah really truly loved to eat. He would always complain that he was going to get fat the second his metabolism slowed down. The great thing was that he wasn't a picky eater--he'd eat anything. Also, he was very adventurous. Whenever we went out to eat, he would simply ask the server what they thought was good, and get what they told him! I was always so baffled...I was just content with my guaranteed hamburger and fries. Just one example of how he lived up life, always up for a risk.

6. Micah loved his clothes. He loved to be fashionable. It was never an overly in-your-face-fashion; it was just his own "cool" style. He loved anything that was laid back, or anything that was original. He liked bright colors. And he loved hoodies. And shoes. And sunglasses. And jeans with holes. We always had a blast going Goodwill-ing together. I'm going to miss looking for clothes for him, as I usually did when I was out anywhere. Even giving him a cheap shirt made him so happy, so I always looked for clothes that screamed "Micah."

7. Micah hated being bored. He loved adventure. He was spontaneous, and that's why it was so fun to be his girlfriend. He would just call me and we'd go do something random, like wearing ridiculous hats to McDonald's, or hanging out at Prince Street. We both were so grateful that we only lived 10 minutes away from each other (8 mintues Micah boasted, if he sped.) Our relationship would have been so different if we wouldn't have been able to the tiny, but fun things like that. I miss my best friend.

8. Micah loved to surprise me. There were cards left on my front door...fish in the tub...a hamster in my room...12 roses on Valentine's day...notes under my pillow...a scavenger hunt for banquet. He would always surprise me after work by showing up at my house. Usually he'd call me and make it sound like he was home; but then he'd randomly go, "Look outside!" And then I'd run to the window, and he'd be outside leaning against his car, with his phone in his hand, and I'd laugh and run out to meet him.

9. Micah loved life. Sometimes when I'd ask him how his day was, he'd say, "I love life!"

10. Micah was a real person. I know that's such a stupid and obvious statement, but sometimes its nice to remember that, and I say it to myself. He woke up in the morning like anyone else, he brushed his teeth; he had his ups and downs; he had his bad moods. He had thoughts running through his head; he had dreams at night, he had preferences of people he'd rather not hang out with, he wondered what the future would be like.
When it comes down to it, I miss this Micah, the real person of him, the part that was human. As his girlfriend, it was my job to understand him and be there for him...we talked everyday, we were there for eachother, and we knew eachother like the backs of our own hands. That's why its hard sometimes to hear other peoples interpretations of him, people that didn't know him as well and don't know what to say. Its hard to hear distant people talk about him, when I knew Micah at the deepest level of knowing someone. He wasn't just a senior that died and had "no regrets" as his motto--he was just Micah; how do I describe that to others?
Sigh...it's just hard. Life is hard. Nothing else I can say except those words.

Well, there's some ramblings from my head today.

Graduation.

A blur of a day.
When did it start? When did it end?

Feet slipping into red wedges. Hair curled. Make-up done. Gown zipped, hat secured. Tassle set.

Walking down the aisle.
Don't cry. Don't cry.
Fake smile. Don't cry.

Name called. Applause so loud, it's surprising. Lips tremble as I bite back the tears. The walk across the stage--fake smile, don't trip--it seems to last forever.

"Micah Josef Berthold." Soon his name echoes from the microphone and bounces off the walls, and the auditorium becomes instantly hushed. Josef walks on stage, toward the empty chair--applause so loud, standing ovation, tears welling up inside--Micah's cap now on his dad's head. Who would have thought it'd be this way? That his father would gently fill his place? I squint my eyes, and for a fleeting second Micah is there, wearing that hat---maybe he is in a wheelchair, and maybe we are cheering for the triumph of his survival of the accident. Maybe he is damaged, but he is still there, laughing and energetic as ever, handsome and beaming in his gown. But no, he is quickly lost in the sea of caps, and soon I am back to reality, and we are only cheering for his absence, the void. And there's nothing else we can do.

Walk back out, quickly grab the hands of my second family that is sitting in the first row, see the pain in their eyes as I glide by. "I wish it wasn't this way" that look says. "I'm sorry he is not here." "I'm sorry it's so wrong."...We both know. That look says a thousand words.

Later, Josef gives me two kisses, "one from me" and "one from Micah." "Micah's" kiss seems to linger on my cheek throughout the afternoon; I can feel it sitting there and it makes me happy.

And soon, Micah's cap is in my hands: 3--2--1--and it flings into the sky, black against the clouds, spinning and twirling in a chaos of wind, until it falls onto the ground, still.

And the day is over, and I can't go back, and it is a harmony of good and bad; tears and laughter, hate and love; my "bittersweet symphony" continues late into the early hours of the morning.

"I'm so proud of you," Micah said to me when he saw my straight-A report card several months ago.

I'm so proud of you.
I know you're proud of me today. I can hear you saying it.

But please know I am so, so proud of you as well. Look how far we've come, and look how far we have yet to go together.

Pre-Grad.

Micah, this is so wrong. You know it, I know it; we both know it.

Tomorrow is graduation. And your chair has become "the" chair, the empty one, the one that everyone looks at, and pities, yet still don't understand. Because it's you--that's your chair...it's not supposed to be empty. Do people realize that? Is anyone else freaking out and yelling at the world that this is not fair?

Tomorrow I will walk across the stage, but somehow you won't be there. You won't catch my gaze across the room. I won't hear your whoops and hollers. We won't share an excited hug. We won't get a picture together. You won't throw your hat into the sky.

I was so looking forward to sharing this day together.

I hate how its one of the last planned events of us together.
I hate how its the first of many separators--now I'll graduate, but you never will, at least officially.
I hate how your family has to sit in a room packed with happy, cheesy parents, who are oogling at their "babies growing up."
I hate how every speaker talks of future dreams, when all of mine seemed to be with you.
I hate how everyone is "moved on," but everything to me is still as fresh as if I'm by your side, in the hospital, during those long days.
I hate how your facebook says "no reply" to my grad party...

I hate that you're not here. I hate it. But I love you so, so much and I know you'd be proud of me for "sticking with it."

Germany.

This winter, Micah and I; and his two younger brothers, flew to Germany for a week. Often my mind wanders back to that trip. Those 7 days were magical. What could be better than flying to Europe with your amazing boyfriend, 18 years old, no care in the world, with no parents, no schedule except to hang out and explore? Talk about perfect. Now, those days feel even more magical...they are the epitome of the happiness of Micah and I, our love at its peak. They feel frozen in my mind, like some happy polaroid picture-moment; so distantly-dreamy and ironically-perfect.

I'm so grateful for that week. It was worth every penny, even though I had to work one long winter to get the money. How perfect that I got to meet his German family; to see where he grew up; to walk the halls where his padded little baby feet ran. To spend time with Dominik and Jeremy, and create inside jokes we still talk about to this day. To spend cherished time with Micah---to get a taste of what it would have been like to maybe travel back one day with a "real" family of our own.

At nighttime, after our daily adventures, Micah would whisper to me before he went to his own bed upstairs that he would "pay me a visit." It was always a thrill. I would pull on my pajamas and my thick socks--(German houses are so cold!)--and then wait. Sure enough, 20 minutes later, I could hear Micah's footsteps coming closer, and I knew he was on the way. He would sneakily tip-toe down three flights of stairs, past Oma and Opa sleeping, and find my little makeshift bedroom in the basement. Then he would come and sit on my bed, and we'd talk about the day; sometimes analyze his family and how things were going. He'd tell me how much of a trooper I was, or apologize if I was bored. (Of course I was never bored! I'd say.) Then, Micah would give me a hug and a huge kiss; tuck me into bed; and shut the door and begin his thrilling sneak back up the stairs. I always had happy dreams afterwards--always. :)

One night, Micah accidentally fell asleep when he said he'd visit me. I remember waiting and waiting, and finally falling asleep myself. In the morning, he apologized again and again, but I told him it really was ok. However, I think we both knew we were disappointed--we both cherished those moments so much, so to even lose one night was disappointing.

In the morning, Micah was my alarm clock. He'd sneak back downstairs to my room, and wake me up in some theatrical way. Sometimes the best way was throwing something at me, of course, or completely jumping on top of me (only Micah knew how bad jet-lag got to me). Then some ways were more loving; and he'd sweetly stroke my hair, or lay next to me and sleep for a little bit himself.

I loved mornings. Once it was guaranteed I was awake, and my alarm clock went back upstairs, I'd get dressed, then wander upstairs myself. Breakfast was always ready--I felt like a queen. Hot coffee in endless supply; warm bread, with salty meat and cheese. Oma was always ready to feed me!--she was always so giving and loving. Then I'd look out the window, and there was Germany in its full winter glory...rolling fog, snow blanketing the fields, frost clinging to the trees. A beauty I wish I had words to describe.

One morning, Micah and I decided to take a morning jog. It was so stupid of us! It was way below freezing, but we ended up running for about 25 minutes. Eventually we had to give in and come back inside--our legs were completely numb. Of course, I remember secretly complaining in my head--I was so out of shape and in so much pain! Micah kept pushing me and wanted to go at a faster pace. Actually, when I think about it, I think we both ended up walking, out of exhaustion. Maybe all that German food was getting to us. :)

Other memories...
A New Year's kiss, outside, with fireworks flying around EVERYWHERE!
Being set free in Munich to explore, just the two of us.
Swimming in a giant indoor pool, and Micah carrying me on his back.
Getting the giggles during a Catholic church service.
Somehow not getting tired of each other on the 9 hour plane ride, both ways.
Chipping my tooth biting into a hot dog.
Holding hands under the table during supper.
Laying on a big bed with Dominik, Jeremy, and Micah, all squished together and cuddled under blankets, watching an Eagles game in the US, through skype.
Waving goodbye to Opa in the airport, not knowing it would be the last time he'd see Micah...


Memories like these make me so happy. I'm feeling tears right now as I truly think about what's happened, but for now these memories will help suppress them. Germany was a beautiful, magical time and I will never forget the laughter, excitement, and love in those few days, thousands of miles away from home.

Beginning.

Micah died. Micah died. Micah died.

I write those words over and over again, but somehow they don't seem true. They don't register. They don't make sense. I hate them. They roll off my brain and refuse to stick; refuse to settle. Instead, they sit at the tip of my tongue, ready to be spit out, as if that would make everything go away. Make everything disappear and bring my normal, happy life back.

I am starting this blog hoping that it will bring some clarity. To both myself and others. It's been such a long, long month and everyone asks me how I'm doing. "How are you doing?" Well. Hmm. Let's see. I'm sorry that answer couldn't be obvious enough. My boyfriend just died, actually. So actually, I'm doing pretty terrible. Actually, some days are so difficult to get out of bed that my mom has to sit beside me for 20 minutes. Actually, this is as close to hell as I could ever imagine. Does that answer your question?

Truthfully, this blog is how I'm doing.

Sometimes I'm good. Sometimes I'm bad. Actually, I'm always bad, but sometimes its a good-bad, or at least an ok-bad. Sometimes I laugh; sometimes I cry. Sometimes I laugh-cry, or cry-laugh. It truly depends on the second.

So bear with me as I start this.

And on a final note, today (would be?) is our 1 year, 8 months anniversary of dating. We rock. I love you Micah!