Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind.
Today, February 28th, 2005, is two years since a wonderful woman passed away. I called Steph a while ago to see how she was doing, and unfortunately she's not doing well, but not because of what day this is. I'm not going to get into the reasons, I only have one question: What happened to my friends? We were all so close, and then everything changed. We drifted apart... And everyone fell apart. I hate this.
I've watched you all grow up, and so have I.
This isn't really what I had in mind...
It was cold and grey that morning. The thick fog hung in the air like sadness caught at the back of your throat. As I stood outside, I realized the day typified the kind one sees in movies when something bad is about to happen. Had I known that was precisely how the day would unfold, I probably would not have bothered rushing out to the car a few minutes later, hair still wet, books falling from my hands.
Once at school, I was groggily waiting around for the homeroom bell to ring, planning to stand there taking up space, leaning against the mauve lockers outside my classroom, before it was time for the morning announcements. Still half asleep, I jumped when a girl I knew vaguely from one of my classes tapped me on the shoulder, causing me to spin around quickly, nearly losing my balance.
"You're good friends with Stephanie Tress, aren't you?" she asked, her tone making it clear that she was eager to be the bearer of bad news.
"Yea," I said, "and…?" I'm not the most sociable person at 7:45am, especially on a Monday morning. The girl, flipping her hair, making a slight clicking noise with her tongue, looked slightly annoyed.
"Well, I just wanted to let you know that I heard some people talking down the hall, and one of them said there is an ambulance and police cars in front of Steph's house," she replied, voice now steeped with attitude, before turning and walking away. My heart skipped a beat, and my stomach sank. Intending to find out what the problem was, I rushed down the crowded hall to the restroom to use my cell phone.
Rounding the corner near my destination, I passed several of my friends, who walked quickly by without ever glancing in my direction, heads down, arms linked, disheveled looks and teary eyes a clear sign that something was very, very wrong. My mind was now teeming with horrific possibilities, and I practically flew into the bathroom, with cell phone in trembling hand. Finally passing through the restroom doors, I encountered another close friend, Jessie, a perpetually strong, seemingly unshakable girl, who on this morning, however, greeted me in hysterics.
"Marianne… she died. Steph's mom… uh…" Jessie's voice trailed off as she sat down on the ground, legs unable to support the weight of her grief. I slid into the spot next to her, trying to process what I had just been told. Stephanie, Jessie, and I grew up together, and in a way Marianne played the role of mother to each one of us over the years, talking and listening to us, guiding us, staying objective and nonjudgmental, urging us to learn from her mistakes but allowing us to make our own at the same time, all the while waiting in the wings to offer help or a shoulder to cry on when they were needed. Essentially, doing everything Jessie and I could never expect within our own homes, unconditional love being something alien there. In fact, our whole group of friends relied on Marianne; she was the kind of woman that opened her heart and home to anyone who needed it, regardless of the events in her own life.
"What! How is that possible?" I said in disbelief, my words barely intelligible through my steadily crumbling composure.
"I don't know, I don't know," Jessie tearfully explained, "all I was told is that she passed away in her sleep, and Steph found her this morning." As if losing a mother wasn't scarring enough, it had to be Stephanie that discovered the whole scene. She and Marianne were more like sisters than mother and daughter. That old saying must be true: when it rains, it pours.
Jessie and I walked back out into the hallway, rejoining the rest of the group. Not a word passed between my friends and me concerning what we were doing, a collective consciousness seeming to take over as we all headed for the office to sign ourselves out. Memories from the next hour or so are fuzzy; I only recall having one thought repeating in my head, like a mantra: you have to get to Steph's house, now!
My friends and I understood that we were needed at Stephanie's house, but school authorities thought otherwise, inconsiderately explaining that it was not our family and, as a result, not our place to be there. The principles and counselor decided that we had no reason to be so upset, accusing us of inflating our emotions for the sole purpose of getting out of school, and refused to let us sign out for the remainder of our classes. Furious, yet numb from grief and denial, we remained undeterred. The mantra was still at the front of my mind: you have to get to Steph's house, now!
None of us strangers to subverting authority, my friends and I, a normally boisterous group of seven, suddenly sad and withdrawn, running on auto-pilot, full of shaky adrenaline, left the school immediately and went straight to the Tress residence, knowing full-well the administration's error in judgment; our support would be welcomed. Steph considers us family, as do many of her relatives. Marianne in particular had always treated each of us like one of her children, the gesture returned by her eternal title of "Mom" within the group.
The driveway was already filled with cars. I parked along the street, and the walk to the house became the longest two minutes I have experienced. The day looked sad and lonely. Walking up, I came upon Steph, who sat alone gazing off into space as if she did not quite comprehend what was happening, her eyes softening a bit at the sight of her friends.
"Thank you so much for coming," she said, resting her head on my shoulder, holding Jessie's hand. It proved to be the first of countless days and nights spent like this; Steph needed our help, even more than we realized. Her dad, Scott, later told me in confidence that he doubted she could have made it through those next few hectic days without all of us there supporting her, whether that meant comforting her after waking from a nightmare, wiping her eyes, remembering the good times, or just being another presence in the room, which was comforting in its own right.
People came in and out all morning, offering condolences, bringing food, generally working as a unit to keep the immediate family functioning, while still grieving in their own ways. I have never seen that many people converge so quickly over the loss of one person. Within two hours of Steph's grim discovery, the house was filled with Marianne's friends and family. The time passed slowly, and our group sat outside in the cold, on the porch that some of us had helped Marianne paint. The fog still hung in the air, as we smoked cigarette after cigarette and reminisced. Sometimes we cried, but more often we laughed. It's strange how sometimes it takes a tragedy to remind people why they became so close.
~*~ RIP Marianne ~*~
I've watched you all grow up, and so have I.
This isn't really what I had in mind...
It was cold and grey that morning. The thick fog hung in the air like sadness caught at the back of your throat. As I stood outside, I realized the day typified the kind one sees in movies when something bad is about to happen. Had I known that was precisely how the day would unfold, I probably would not have bothered rushing out to the car a few minutes later, hair still wet, books falling from my hands.
Once at school, I was groggily waiting around for the homeroom bell to ring, planning to stand there taking up space, leaning against the mauve lockers outside my classroom, before it was time for the morning announcements. Still half asleep, I jumped when a girl I knew vaguely from one of my classes tapped me on the shoulder, causing me to spin around quickly, nearly losing my balance.
"You're good friends with Stephanie Tress, aren't you?" she asked, her tone making it clear that she was eager to be the bearer of bad news.
"Yea," I said, "and…?" I'm not the most sociable person at 7:45am, especially on a Monday morning. The girl, flipping her hair, making a slight clicking noise with her tongue, looked slightly annoyed.
"Well, I just wanted to let you know that I heard some people talking down the hall, and one of them said there is an ambulance and police cars in front of Steph's house," she replied, voice now steeped with attitude, before turning and walking away. My heart skipped a beat, and my stomach sank. Intending to find out what the problem was, I rushed down the crowded hall to the restroom to use my cell phone.
Rounding the corner near my destination, I passed several of my friends, who walked quickly by without ever glancing in my direction, heads down, arms linked, disheveled looks and teary eyes a clear sign that something was very, very wrong. My mind was now teeming with horrific possibilities, and I practically flew into the bathroom, with cell phone in trembling hand. Finally passing through the restroom doors, I encountered another close friend, Jessie, a perpetually strong, seemingly unshakable girl, who on this morning, however, greeted me in hysterics.
"Marianne… she died. Steph's mom… uh…" Jessie's voice trailed off as she sat down on the ground, legs unable to support the weight of her grief. I slid into the spot next to her, trying to process what I had just been told. Stephanie, Jessie, and I grew up together, and in a way Marianne played the role of mother to each one of us over the years, talking and listening to us, guiding us, staying objective and nonjudgmental, urging us to learn from her mistakes but allowing us to make our own at the same time, all the while waiting in the wings to offer help or a shoulder to cry on when they were needed. Essentially, doing everything Jessie and I could never expect within our own homes, unconditional love being something alien there. In fact, our whole group of friends relied on Marianne; she was the kind of woman that opened her heart and home to anyone who needed it, regardless of the events in her own life.
"What! How is that possible?" I said in disbelief, my words barely intelligible through my steadily crumbling composure.
"I don't know, I don't know," Jessie tearfully explained, "all I was told is that she passed away in her sleep, and Steph found her this morning." As if losing a mother wasn't scarring enough, it had to be Stephanie that discovered the whole scene. She and Marianne were more like sisters than mother and daughter. That old saying must be true: when it rains, it pours.
Jessie and I walked back out into the hallway, rejoining the rest of the group. Not a word passed between my friends and me concerning what we were doing, a collective consciousness seeming to take over as we all headed for the office to sign ourselves out. Memories from the next hour or so are fuzzy; I only recall having one thought repeating in my head, like a mantra: you have to get to Steph's house, now!
My friends and I understood that we were needed at Stephanie's house, but school authorities thought otherwise, inconsiderately explaining that it was not our family and, as a result, not our place to be there. The principles and counselor decided that we had no reason to be so upset, accusing us of inflating our emotions for the sole purpose of getting out of school, and refused to let us sign out for the remainder of our classes. Furious, yet numb from grief and denial, we remained undeterred. The mantra was still at the front of my mind: you have to get to Steph's house, now!
None of us strangers to subverting authority, my friends and I, a normally boisterous group of seven, suddenly sad and withdrawn, running on auto-pilot, full of shaky adrenaline, left the school immediately and went straight to the Tress residence, knowing full-well the administration's error in judgment; our support would be welcomed. Steph considers us family, as do many of her relatives. Marianne in particular had always treated each of us like one of her children, the gesture returned by her eternal title of "Mom" within the group.
The driveway was already filled with cars. I parked along the street, and the walk to the house became the longest two minutes I have experienced. The day looked sad and lonely. Walking up, I came upon Steph, who sat alone gazing off into space as if she did not quite comprehend what was happening, her eyes softening a bit at the sight of her friends.
"Thank you so much for coming," she said, resting her head on my shoulder, holding Jessie's hand. It proved to be the first of countless days and nights spent like this; Steph needed our help, even more than we realized. Her dad, Scott, later told me in confidence that he doubted she could have made it through those next few hectic days without all of us there supporting her, whether that meant comforting her after waking from a nightmare, wiping her eyes, remembering the good times, or just being another presence in the room, which was comforting in its own right.
People came in and out all morning, offering condolences, bringing food, generally working as a unit to keep the immediate family functioning, while still grieving in their own ways. I have never seen that many people converge so quickly over the loss of one person. Within two hours of Steph's grim discovery, the house was filled with Marianne's friends and family. The time passed slowly, and our group sat outside in the cold, on the porch that some of us had helped Marianne paint. The fog still hung in the air, as we smoked cigarette after cigarette and reminisced. Sometimes we cried, but more often we laughed. It's strange how sometimes it takes a tragedy to remind people why they became so close.
~*~ RIP Marianne ~*~