One night on my laptop, I typed a poem and called it “life” because that’s what I had to deal with and that’s what it was all about. I gave it to the guy across the street and he wrote me back. It went like this for months.This was the year I got contacts and celebrated by eating cake with my grandma. My mom wrote me songs and would sing them to me before I slept, and my dad would make me pancakes in the morning before school. And I started playing the piano.

One afternoon in my journal, I wrote a poem and called it “Love” because that’s what I wanted and that’s what it was all about. I gave it to the guy across the street, he wrote me a song and I finally got what I wanted. This was the year my family came over for thanksgiving and my Grandmother and I baked a peach pie, because it was everybody’s favorite. And my mom wrote me more songs, but didn’t sing as much. And my dad made me scrambled eggs instead of pancakes before school. And I composed a song and dedicated it to my grandpa who had died when I was younger. I played it for my grandma and she cried.

One September dawn in a notebook I found, I wrote a letter to myself and labeled it “lost” because that’s what I was and that’s what it was all about. I didn’t give it to the guy across the street because his mom had just died and my letter would only make him sadder. This was the year my grandma got sick and we couldn’t bake like we used to. My mom kept to herself and didn’t write or sing. My father got a new job and he stopped making me breakfast before school. I didn’t compose or play the piano as much but when I did it was for Grandma.

One fall midnight during a full moon on a paper torn from my notebook, I wrote a letter and entitled it “forgiveness”, because that is what I sought and that’s what it was all about. I sent it to the guy across the street and he wrote me back asking for the same thing; I didn’t hear from him as much after that. This was the year my grandmother died and my family and friends were saying how sorry they were for my loss; I cried a lot and wished that everything would go back to the way that it was before. Not long after that my mother had stopped writing and singing all together. My father had gotten fired from his job and started drinking to ease the pain. I played the piano even less because when I did it reminded me of my grandparents and how much I loved them.

One October morning during history class, I wrote a poem on the front of my binder and called it “Disappointment”, because that was what I was feeling and that’s what it was all about. I was disappointed with the boy across the street because he had killed himself; His older brother read the suicide note to me and it talked about how the boy couldn’t deal with his mom being gone. I didn’t ask his brother too many questions; because I could tell that he was upset. A year had passed since my grandmother died so I visited her grave; I cried and my tears fell heavily on her cold dark headstone. I left her my last composition and black roses because they were her favorites. My mother became depressed and stopped talking to people. My father divorced my mother and left for Jamaica or one of those tropical places. I stopped playing the piano, and just gave up on everything else.

One day on a blank page in an old journal, I wrote an entry and called it “Despair”, because that’s what I was feeling and that’s what it was all about. The guy across the street’s brother gave me a letter the guy had written to me on the day he killed himself. It was all about how he was sorry for everything he had done and how he wanted my forgiveness. As I read the meaningful words, I knelt down and said in a solemn tone, “I forgive you”. At that very moment it felt as if a weight had been taken off of my shoulders. This was the year I made a cake for my grandmother’s birthday; I ate it with my cousins and they said that it tasted like hers. Soon after that I witnessed my mother slowly fade into the abyss that was her mind; I found out my father had died and I was happy. I was happy because he no longer had to live with darkness that lingered inside his barren heart. I sold my piano as a way to forget my past and I never played again.

One peaceful night on the palm of my hand, I wrote a word and it was “goodbye”. Although this word was simple it said a lot. It was me saying goodbye and I love you to my grandparents. It was me asking my mother to get better for her own sake. It was me saying goodbye and see you soon to my father.  It was me wishing a heartfelt farewell to the boy across the street. And as I laid in my bed and put a slash on each damned wrist, I said a final goodbye to my life, to my world, and to my mind, and just as my mother and the boy across the street, I slowly faded away into the bright light that engulfed me.