Gray clouds riddle the sky and the air is thick like pudding, foreshadowing a heavy rain. I love the rain. I love the pitter-patter sound it makes on the roof and the tiny rivers it causes on the concrete, rushing towards the storm drains. I love tracing my finger over the dancing drops on the window in the back seat of the van. I especially love the way rain makes the air smell, how it brings out the scents of the earth. The possibility of rain crosses my mind as I walk through the faded double doors into the middle school. Rain is forecastable, but unpredictable. I feel the rain in the air, but I never know the exact time it will fall. Death is much the same.

An assembly. I do not remember them announcing an assembly the previous day, but I scramble to the gymnasium to find my friends. Third row from the top, directly behind Chase and his friends. Our spot. I took the bleacher stairs two at a time, anxious to get the spot right behind Kade. He just started sitting next to me on the bus ride home. Sometimes he takes my new iphone and plays on my candy crush app. I made sure to put a little extra Pink Ice perfume on today, my favorite from Rue 21 in the Heritage Mall. I hope he can tell.

The screeching of a microphone halts our fits of giggles, causing an uproaring of groans and screams. Mr. Gilbert, the principal, clears his throat once, twice. He stares straight in front of him, focusing on a single step of the metal bleacher stairs. He waits one, two, three, four, five seconds before he speaks. Something is not right. “Boys and girls, today is going to be a little different. We are going to direct you all to your normal homeroom classrooms this morning, and you will be sent to your regular classes from there.”  I glanced over at my friends, the same confusion and worry riddling our faces. “Before you move, we need a few students to report to the library. Keesha, Lance, Avery, Davis, and Griffin.” What did all of those students have in common? They’re students I know, students I’m friends with. I cannot put the pieces together, and neither can anyone else. It is almost exciting, not knowing. Did someone use the locker room floor as a bathroom again? Had one of the teacher’s quit unexpectedly? I remember I have a science test later that day. Do I get to skip it? Awesome!

I scuttle through the hallway to my homeroom classroom as soon as the staff releases us. Hordes of students are gossiping and speculating the drama, trying to convince their friends that they “definitely know what this is about.” I laugh. As much as the nonsensical speculations floating through the air humor me, I want to know what is going on as well. Three steps through my homeroom doorway. Three steps, and my stomach drops. I know. Expressions reveal more about the human condition than any words in the english language can profess. Red skin, swollen eyes, shaking hands. Brandon. Before the words are even spoken, I know. “The cancer has spread to his lungs”, his mother says to us in line at the pizza parlor at the end of summer. Red skin, swollen eyes, shaking hands. “They’ve only given him a few more months to live”, my mother says. Red skin, swollen eyes, shaking hands. And there, in that classroom that seems to shrink smaller and smaller, the words crash over us all violently and unexpectedly: “Our beloved classmate Brandon has passed away peacefully in his sleep.”
Memories seep slowly into my head, taking me out of the claustrophobic room and into my backyard. 2005. Albany, Oregon. A boy sits next to me on the porch step, fiery red hair like a firetruck and freckles everywhere, as if an artist intentionally flicked the orange coated bristles of a paintbrush over his skin. The most contagious laugh you have ever heard spills from his mouth. We watch as older siblings put on a show for us. Leaves are thrown above our heads, the smell of fresh earth and new beginnings. The first boy I knew in Oregon. Sweet, young, innocent. Gone. He was kind and he was gentle. A smile that melted hearts and made you feel as though the world was all good. In kindergarten, when we both forgot our costumes for halloween, we got to wear matching firefighter hats and parade around the classrooms together. In the summers before each school year, our families went to look at the classroom rosters the school posted outside the window. Every summer except for fifth grade we saw our names on the same list. We grew up together in close-knit families who found security in each other. In sixth grade, when he was first diagnosed, I don’t think anyone really understood the implications of the word “cancer”. Brandon was so smart, so kind, and so full of integrity. A boy like this didn’t deserve to suffer, but we all figured he would fight and win the battle. He showed up in my science and math classes a few times throughout the year to take tests, and he aced all of them. There was a spark in him that nobody expected to go out. I thought he had more time.

I try tirelessly to process what I feel. My body is trapped between anger and grief. Anger at God for taking Brandon so soon, for making him and his parents suffer. Grief over the life I only halfway knew and how I will never have a chance to know more. I don’t understand. Staring out the window at those damned storm clouds is unsettling, so I turn away and rest my head gently on my desk and cry to myself. Grieving is something I do in isolation. When I watched the dog die in Marley & Me in the theater, I held my breath so nobody saw or heard me cry. I don’t want to make myself look weak. This internal battle has raged inside of me for as long as I can remember; to put up a strong front or face patronizing from adults. The things I always hear are “I was once your age, so I know how you feel”, “It seems bad right now, but it gets better”, or “I know exactly what you’re going through”. In this moment, however, as tears burn down my face, slip to my chin and crimp my straightened hair, nobody understands what I feel. I try to gain my composure and shut out reality temporarily. I escape to an alternate landscape of mountains, fresh air, and sunshine on my skin. It feels nice, but like a kudzu vine, guilt invades the veil and I remember that Brandon is dead. He is dead.

The rain is falling slowly, but ceaselessly this afternoon. I love the rain. Everything that the rain brings. The burst of merciless precipitation plummets to earth and soaks the water-forsaken valley. I peer up at the clouds with my naked eyes, no discernment between rivulets of raindrops or tears under my swollen eyes. I reach my hands out before me, letting the dainty drops of water touch my reddened skin, irritated from the chilled air. I watch with melancholy curiosity, as the rivulets slide down my shaking fingers. Rain is forecastable, inevitable. Its arrival, however, is unpredictable. Death is much the same.