Author's Note: I wrote this as my "personal statement" aka essay for my application to the University of Washington. This story is about my band. We went to compete in the Fiesta Bowl, and while we were there, we lost one of our members. It was completely shocking for us, we never imagined it could happen. This is about the aftermath, the memorial service we held once back home. I don't post it to make light of or cheapen the incident, I just wanted to share. Please review and tell me what you think.
It is the most hollow, empty sound I have ever heard: it reverberates against the bare oaks, against the rusted chain link fence, against the school on one side of the street and the church on the other. The notes roll off of the bass drum, painstaking rhythmical perfection cast into the otherwise still night. Every band member steps with the beats. Every band member is silent. It's the kind of parade never before done by us: the funeral march.
Only days ago there was a boy who looked, common consent said, like Harry Potter. He played the marimba like nobody's business. Only days ago there was a boy, running around a track in Arizona. Then there was a boy, stretched out, motionless, while the world around exploded in a frenzy of movement. And as we were instructed to return to the rehearsal, not one of us knew that we would never see him again.
Tonight the inside of the church is a warm antithesis to the bitter outside air. Pressed tightly in wooden pews, we wait. Stony faced, brave, we wait through speeches. We wait through words both meaningful and empty. And then the music starts.
Our director, never before heard to sing despite a degree in opera, in a beautiful baritone, crooning "Precious Lord, Take My Hand," our on-field warm up for that year. Then we're playing, the second movement from our show, starting slow and mournful, building into a glorious crescendo. The church rings with the effort, and the silence after the release is louder than any explosion. If anyone was conducting, we are unaware. It's hard to see through all the tears in our eyes.
Rather, we feel, as we felt in finals performance. As we felt while we pinned simple ribbon around our left arms, a bold black slash across the bleached white sleeve. As we felt, hearing after that rehearsal, "We're sorry to say that he passed away." As we felt, knowing that death was no longer a stranger.
I feel, because more than anything, I never knew this boy. Who, only days ago was playing his marimba right in front of me, in a hotel ballroom. Who, only days ago was running next to me on a track in Arizona. Because sitting in this pew, home in Texas, I am sobbing uncontrollably for a boy I never spoke to, a boy I never learned from, or laughed with, or helped. Because, too shy, I never even said 'hi', or 'how was your day?' Because things move far too quickly for bashfulness.
Later that night, tears dried, church still once more, we walk home under flickering orange streetlamps, not in line, not to the beat of any drum. I walk next to a girl I have never spoken with. I don't even know her name. But I fully intend to know by the time we arrive back at school.