I was wearing pink pajamas when they woke me up in the middle of the night and I walked down the stairs to hear what had happened.
I rested my head in Hannah’s lap and one of our parents drove us to the school. She stroked my hair while I watched the tree branches covered in ice dance in and out of view. The white sky looked like snow.
We huddled together for days or weeks in living rooms and locker rooms, like time stood still. We weren’t sure what else to do. I printed out AIM conversations and kept notes from them in my pocket until the paper turned so thin I had to stop.
On the day of their funeral, I sang Stairway to Heaven in my head and traced their initials in the condensation of the school bus window. I asked them to give me a sign that they were there and I swear I saw a petal drop from the white rose I held in my hand. Magical thinking helped, it still does.
Over twenty years later, I’m thankful for my excellent memory. Something reminds me of them, a song we sang loud in his sister’s car, a recipe for French Onion soup, and I still see them both, remembering exactly what it felt like to be fifteen.