They say that when you die, your whole life flashes in front of you, but I know that's not true. For me it was just a few memories, punctuated by the weak pounding of my heart.

Thud. Thud.

I remember the way my mother used to smile when she held me and how that little wrinkle used to show up right near her lip and disappear when she stopped smiling. She called it a dimple and I used to poke it to make it stay in place even when she wasn't happy.

Thud. Thud.

I remember the time Shannon Higgins's mom dropped me home from ballet early one day and how I ran up to my dad's room to hug him since he'd been gone on a business trip for the last two weeks and how my dad picked me up and spun me around so I wouldn't see the naked lady coming out of the bathroom. And how my dad forgot that there was a mirror right behind him

Thud. Thud.

I remember the time I went to the little carnival they had every year with my friends and how I practiced my self control and didn't eat an ice cream cone with sprinkles on top and hot fudge to and how I told everyone I was doing an experiment. And how they believed me.

Thud. Thud.

And I remember his face because it's the last thing I saw.

Of course, I didn't just die. I was murdered in cold blood by someone I should've stopped. But I didn't know better and once I figured out enough it was too late. In any case, how or why I died isn't important. It's all the things that happened before then that I know I will love and treasure forever.

A year ago, there were three things I loved more than anything else: pickles, popcorn, and lemon tea. They're not particularly remarkable, except that they led to a string of coincidences that led me to him.

August 28, 2010. It was the day of the farmers' market, and my mom dragged me with her even though I hated going. She convinced me because they would have the pickle stand, with every variety of pickle known to man, woman, and dog (they used to throw down little pieces for even the dogs to try). They had extra salty and spicy and black peppercorn & herbs, which was my favorite.

When we got to the farmers' market, which was held right in the parking lot of the train station, just a block from all the mom & pop stores main street, my mom headed over to the fresh burgers that someone was selling. I don't eat beef at all and I generally avoid meat, not because I'm an animal lover but because of the way meat tastes in my mouth. It always tastes slimy or too salty unless I get someone to overcook it and make it bland, but then it's too dry and I don't like that either. So I don't like eating meat, but I love pickles.

I went over to the pickle stand while my mom was buying the burgers (she found veggie burgers for me but I told her paying seven bucks for two burgers wasn't worth it and the stand lady started giving me dirty looks). Even though you might be thoroughly disgusted by pickles, which I completely understand and respect, you are probably thinking of some grocery store-bought sitting-on-a-shelf-for-six-years type. Just to clear things up, these babies at the farmers' market were gourmet pickles. Since I live in Chester, also known as the richest and whitest town in the state, my neighbors and their friends are pretty in to gourmet, so there was a big crowd around the pickle stand and a long line.

I walked to the back of the line and stood there playing with my hair. I was growing it out and at that time it was about two inches above my hip bones. The whole way up to the front of the line I was thinking about my hair, which I guess sounds incredibly vain, but you have to realize that I almost never do that. I was actually thinking about my hair and the kind of hair I would want my dream guy to have. I have dark brown, almost black, hair so I could never picture myself with anyone who didn't have dark hair.

I finally got to the front of the line and bought a pound of pickles. The lady at the stand put them in a round Tupperware jar thing – like the ones they give you at Chinese restaurants when you order soup to go – and was having trouble snapping the lid on. I told her she could leave it half off and I would fix it and I paid for the pickles.

I decided that I would just head back to the car and try to fix the lid once I got there. I picked up my precious pickles and turned around, but I had forgotten about the crowd and I moved too fast and the jar of pickles slipped out of my hand and fell on a guy wearing a suit who was standing near me. The brine in the pickle jar left a very awkwardly-placed wet mark on the guy's pants and I immediately started laughing.

I couldn't help it. I don't know what came over me but I just couldn't shut up. It really wasn't in character for me either. I'm usually the type of person who helps people no matter what (hobos tend to love me because I can't resist giving them money). Anyway, the guy became really mad, and demanded my address so he could bill me for the dry cleaning charges for his suit. What an asshole. The whole time he was yelling at me though, I was staring at his eyes, which were the most brilliant icy blue I had seen in my life. Looking into his eyes was like looking into the face of the engagement ring of my dreams.

Now don't get any ideas. I did not like this guy because, firstly, he was an asshole, and secondly he looked like he was almost 30. I'm 16, and that would be completely illegal so get your mind out of the gutter and pay attention.

I don't know why I did it, but I still gave him my name and my address. Maybe it was his eyes, or maybe it was my helpful side finally kicking in, I don't know, but in any case, he took it and stormed off unhappily. Then my mom came over looking as mad as ever and asked me what was going on. I told her I dropped pickles on some guy and he was pretty pissed, but I conveniently left out the part about the guy sending us the bill. We're a bit tight on cash right now, since my mom's a professor at a university not too far from home and my dad's child support checks only cover so much.

As I said, I love pickles, so I started walking back to the end of the line to get another jar, but my mom had had enough and she dragged me off to the car. It was a great day.

The next morning, I checked the mailbox and found the bill waiting right on top of all the other mail. It wasn't even postmarked, so that jerk had gone through the trouble of coming all the way over here just to drop off the bill. I laughed to myself. Want me to pay for your gas money too?

He had written his address on the back of the bill, along with a note saying "I take cash or personal check." I'm telling you, rich people always take it too far. The address was in the next town over – Madison – but since I live right near the edge of my town, it was only about a mile away. I grabbed the cash (sixteen-year-olds generally don't write personal checks) and my converses and headed out for a carefree morning stroll. Yeah right. At least it wasn't raining.