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Description
Emerald is not a usual or common name. And Emerald was not a usual or common girl.

I first encountered my mystery in the dark ages of my third grade year. The peculiar thing about third grade is that all eight year-old girls are basically the same. They may appear unique, but are defined by the dolls they play with and the boys they crush on. But the peculiar thing about Emerald was that she was defined by neither dolls nor by boys, but by books. Which particular book she kept her young nose it was no matter; whether she read Dr. Seuss or The Catcher in the Rye, the oddity of her seemingly bizarre interest remained the same.

The other children took it upon themselves to tease Emerald whenever the fates allowed, but it didn't seem to have any effect on the quiet little girl. To my own current shame, I occasionally took part in the teasing, but only when pressured by the other children. Eight year-old me didn't exactly understand the concept of insults, so the best I could come up was calling her by the name of Emma, rather than the shining green name actually bestowed upon her. I expected her feelings to be hurt or to at least annoy her in the slightest way, but every time I spoke to her, she didn't so much as roll her big eyes, but rather, smile vaguely.

I can't quite recall exactly when the first time I found one was, but I know that I was very young. I believe that I had matured to the latter year of grade five on the day that I indifferently sauntered home from Ruther Elementary School and caught eye of a gleam on the sidewalk with a stunning verdigris. Being ten, I put no thought into how the glimmering stone had come to be resting on the sidewalk by the street in my mediocre town or who it might possibly belong to or the fact that they most likely want it back, but grinned and took the beautiful rarity along with me.

I never showed the spectacular and miniscule rock to anyone.

Ruther Middle School was basically a haven of despair to anyone who stepped inside it. Anyone, that is, except Emerald. Though her friends had changed and the teasing had died down, the company of books remained present. Dolls had been replaced by gossip, though boys had not been replaced at all, and rumors spread through the school like a plague. But while every other sixth though eight grader in the building engaged in in-depth discussions about who was dating who, Emerald's nose stayed out of the gossip, and in the books. It seemed pretty straightforward; she just liked to read. Well, so it seemed to everyone else. But I couldn't help but wonder. What was she reading about? How did she become so absorbed by words on pages? What did she think about? Somewhere in the back of my mind, these questions were omnipresent; I couldn't cease my wonderings about the devoutly focused look in her eyes. I found myself absorbed in those emerald green eyes the same way that Emerald herself was absorbed in the black and white words.

The little green stone had not crossed my mind again. Until I found another one, that is. I was in my backyard, carrying out the task of watering my mother's garden at the time when, just like before, I noticed a gleam of green. But when I looked down to identify it; the sun no longer hit it in the correct way to make it visible. I shrugged, figuring I had imagined its glimmer and carried on my chore. However, as I watered a little red plant, I saw it again.  With much confusion, I set down the watering hose and dug through the grass. It wasn't long before I found another spectacular stone, here in my mediocre backyard, just like the one I had discovered three years earlier.

I placed my new beauty alongside my old one; safe in a pocket in a bag in a box in a drawer in my bedroom, safe from the world and the harm and the hurt that comes with it.

I had known Emerald for five years now, but when I thought about it, I had never really known her at all. So, somehow, after all of these years, I finally went about befriending her. But even now, she remained a mystery. She would go into brief tales of The Adventures of Being Emerald, but never bothered to specify why or how these events took place. Still, I couldn't help but listen in awe.

As the years went on and the two of us grew closer, our range of conversational topics broadened. We would have meaningful and thought-provoking discussions about life and its massive complexity over treys of school-prepared hamburgers. She would always mention how we all have a purpose, but someday and somehow, our purposes will eventually be forgotten and a new generation of people with a new handful of purposes will take over the job of living when this one is no longer fit. When she spoke of this, she never seemed depressed or troubled in the slightest sense, but would smile the same vague smile that she had since so many years before.

The obscurity of high school was hard to comprehend, despite the fact that I only had weeks left of it. It seemed that a part of me was still young and vulnerable, trapped in third grade when all of the girls and their dolls and their boys were the same – all with the exception of Emerald. I gazed at my reflection, and it occurred to me that I hadn't really changed. Sure, I was older physically, but everything had learned, I had learned from her, not figured out for myself. And now high school was nearing its end, and soon I would have to face the world and the harm and the hurt that comes with it on my own. Also, I was wearing a tux.

If high school in itself was a difficult enough concept to understand, then senior prom was something of a paradox. And the most remarkable part of it all, I was going with Emerald. As friends, but still going with her. I took a breath and rang the doorbell and her mother answered and welcomed me into their home as if I had never been there before.

Then, like a miraculous gift from the heavens, Emerald and all of her beauty came down the stairs and into her living room. She wore a shining green gown that not only matched her name, but also her eyes. Her hair was pulled into a simple bun, and like the glistening green stone, she shone through the mediocrity: a beautiful rarity. Pictures were taken and goodbyes were said, and she and I made our departure.

Even if we were there as friends, as we were photographed for the five-hundredth time that night, I couldn't help but wonder how I of all people came to be standing beside her. I wanted to ask her. I wanted to make an hour long speech about how beautiful she looked. I wanted to dance with her. I wanted to kiss her. But for some unexplained reason, I did none of these things.

We danced (though not in the slow manner that I so much desired) and we talked to our friends and we talked to each other and we talked to other people and I looked ordinary and she looked stunning and we danced and we talked and the night was perfect. Never again would I have a night like this. It couldn't end. I wasn't ready. Not now. Not ever.

But it did end. I woke up the next morning and it was over.

We stood there in our caps and gowns, smiling and talking. Not about school or about each other or about books or about life and its massive complexity, but simply talking. We had made it through the monotony that was elementary school, then the haven of despair that was middle school, and now the unexpected adventure that was high school. Now, we stood there at the end of it all, talking with all the simplicity of one of those third grade girls.

Somewhere in the back of our minds, I think that we were both well aware that this was the end, but it seemed that neither of us were able to comprehend or accept the reality of it. As soon as graduation ended, Emerald would leave for a road trip with some of her friends, and as soon as the road trip ended, she and I would both begin the new life that is college.

As we had all predicted ever since we learned of the concept, she was our valedictorian. She delivered a beautifully written speech about how we may be done with school, but all of us – herself included – had a great deal left to learn, not by the means of college, but by life. We were the start of a new generation, a generation that was to step forward and fulfill its purpose and it was up to us to ensure that the next generation would do the same. She joked that the fate of the world was in our hands ("no pressure") and I wondered if the fate of my world was in her hands.

We applauded, we walked, we got our diplomas, we threw our caps in the air, we cheered, and then it was over. There were tears and there was laughter and she hugged me and I hugged her and we promised to always keep in touch and it was over.

Several days passed. Emerald was driving around the country with her friends and I was still here at home preparing for college. It felt strange, really, more than anything, not seeing her every day. But we had texted each other, our conversations now being carried out by means of waves or radioactivity or however texting worked. Then again, I didn't understand how our conversations worked at all. They just did. So, I supposed that this was no different.

Several more days passed. This time I heard nothing from her. Absolutely nothing.

Every time we think of something, we must reform the memory in its entirety. When we stop thinking about something so often, we forget it more and more until we forget it and completely and it is lost forever. Most people don't spend their time recalling insignificant events, so these memories are all-too-often lost before they even become memories.

Procrastination is a beautiful, terrible thing. I was going about my usual means of it, scrolling through an abundance of poorly-written posts written up by people I hardly knew. Most of my friends were still in the process of typing up multiple sentimental graduation-related posts per day, so nothing struck me as particularly interesting or thought-provoking, until, like thunder on a sunny day, I read:

R.I.P emerald Richards
I would have expected my heart to pound or my knees to weaken or my lungs to stop breathing or my brain to melt or anything. But all I could do was stare at the screen and assure myself that it was not true. The status had been posted by some popular blonde girl I had never really known well, so it could very well be some disgusting prank, or she tagged the wrong person, or anything. Not this. Emerald was not-

The page refreshed automatically and more statuses flooded in.

emerald Richards, you will be missed. We love you and are keeping you and your family in our prayers.

I hope heaven has a big library. We think of you every day. emerald Richards

emerald Richards We miss u

emerald Richards May the LORD bless you and keep you. May the LORD make his face shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. May the LORD lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace. <3

This wasn't happening. That was all I could think. No. I couldn't think at all. No. No. This wasn't true. No. It wasn't happening. No. No. It couldn't be. No.

I clicked on one of the many places where emerald Richards could be found on my screen. I held my breath as it loaded. Then Emerald's big green eyes stared at me happily from the top-left corner while wall posts and statuses trampled and suffocated me from the rest of it.

I had that feeling that happens right before you cry, where your chest burns and your throat condenses and your stomach does somersaults and you're so overwhelmed by it all that all you can do is sob. But no tears came. I just sat there stupidly with all the side-effects of crying but no tears and panicked. Maybe I was hyperventilating. Maybe I wasn't breathing at all. I couldn't tell.

In the midst of it all, I clicked on the bar to write a post, but had nothing to say. I couldn't even think straight.

All I knew was that I still wanted to make an hour long speech about how beautiful she was. I still wanted to dance with her. I still wanted to kiss her. But for some unexplained reason, I would never have the chance to do any of these things.

It couldn't end. I wasn't ready. Not now. Not ever.

But it did end. I slammed the laptop shut and she was gone.

I had only attended one other funeral in my life, that of a great-great uncle I had never even known. I was nine years old and it was weird and it was awkward and there were a lot of old people there, and that was all I thought of it. Now, I stood here in the same tuxedo that I had worn only weeks before. It had been used to dance with her, and now it was being used to mourn her. Her mother had somehow gathered the strength to open the door for the other guests (a distraction for herself, I supposed). I remembered how her eyes had lit up when she let me into their home before prom, and felt something I had no word for when she opened the door for me now.
Today was ironically and nauseatingly sunny, the sort of weather that Emerald would have adored. We – her friends and her family and random people from school who had probably never even spoken a word to her – were all gathered in a little white church, either crying or pretending to. Very few words were spoken, and when they were, they always seemed to be something along the lines of either "I'm sorry for your loss" or "She was exceedingly smart".

We were allowed to see her, but I couldn't muster the courage to do so. I had never seen a dead body at all, having only attended one other funeral, and if there was any body I did not want to bare the sight of, it was hers. Something about my lack of a desire to see her for one last time felt wrong. Selfish. Cowardly. I went about pacing around and nodding at other guests because nobody knew how else to greet one another and avoiding the corner of the room where they had her, until I couldn't hold myself together anymore. I still did not want to see her. But something inside of me couldn't bare not to.

They had closed her eyes. She could have been asleep, but she had once told me that she sleeps on her side, not her back, and I considered that perhaps this was yet another misconception that I and everybody else had about her. I would never see those eyes again. The ones that were big and bright and matched her name were now behind closed lids, and there for eternity. But then I noticed that she still had the same vague smile that she had at prom, which she wore during our discussions about life and its massive complexity, and that had been on her face since third grade when everything was simple and I pretended her name was Emma.

The service went on for an hour or so. The preacher spoke about how she was now at home with her Lord and savior Jesus Christ, her family spoke about what a wonderful girl she was, her friends did the same as her family, and the random people from school spoke about her intelligence and how much they wish they had gotten to know her (something I highly doubt they would be saying under different circumstances).

During a totally false account of how much one girl (who had never said one nice word to Emerald in her life) loved her and wished they could have been better friends, I found myself thinking about memories again. About how things that we find insignificant are not remembered, so they are forgotten; and about how in order to remember something fully, we must reform it in its entirety, all inside of our minds, and if we aren't able to do so, then parts of it are lost. It made me realize how alike we truly are, people and memories. After all, once we cease to be a person, a memory is what we become.
The burial was to be for her family only, so, like many other things, her funeral was over. My father had dropped me off at the little white church, he had also insisted on coming with me, but I had insisted back on coming by myself, and due to the situation, he didn't argue. I knew that it was time to leave, but I couldn't endure a car ride back home, he would either try to make meaningless conversation with me or we could sit in the midst of a silence loud enough to measure on The Richter Scale. Either possibility was unbearable, so, in my tuxedo and my tears, I decided to walk home.

It was about ten miles to my house, but that didn't bother me. I was bothered that the world had presented me with the best gift imaginable. It had allowed me to be the one lucky boy who stood by her for five thousand prom photographs, to discuss life and its massive complexity with her, to get away with calling her by the wrong name, to get to know her, to love her. I had done all of these things, but it had never been enough, and before it ever could be, it had torn her away from me when I needed her the most. What did I do to deserve this? More and most importantly, what did she do to deserve this? She had said herself that she had much to learn. Her life had been wasted with someone like me, who treated her more like a fountain of wisdom than a human being and didn't realize it until it was too late and he was walking home from her funeral. She still had books she hadn't read, places she'd never traveled to, Adventures of Being Emerald that she had never been on. Her life was incomplete, as was mine without her. We had promised to keep in touch.

Ten miles did, however, turn out to be more than it seemed. I sat, in my tuxedo, on the side of the road, angry and empty and exhausted. My eyes seemed to have run out of tears they had not already cried and my head seemed to have out of thoughts that it had not already had and my mouth seemed to have run out of curses it had not already shouted. So, I just sat there.

Then, out of the side of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something green and glistening. This time, it didn't take me long to find it, sitting in the grass by the sidewalk by the road. I held it in my hand like the precious thing it was. Somehow, while sitting by the side of the road in my average and completely mediocre town, I was holding something beautiful, an emerald. A slight smile crept its way onto my face as I admired its miraculous beauty, and remembered our promise to keep in touch. There was no telling how it had gotten here, or how the others before it had, only that it was a blessing and a gift that they had. This reminded me of what she had said, about how we all have a purpose, and every purpose is fulfilled somehow. If she taught me anything, it is that we as individuals can't live forever, but that doesn't mean that life will not go on. More people will pick up the job of living wherever we left off, and we must help them prepare for the world and the harm and the hurt that comes with it.  That was exactly what she had done for me.

Though our story had ended far too early, and my shining green epiphany had not healed the empty place where I had kept her, I was lucky that I had been presented with the gift that was our story to begin with. She shone through the mediocrity, and that was what my life would have been without her.  I clutched the beautiful green stone as if my life depended on it, and my life thus far, because I had been lucky enough to know her, was flawed and tear-stained, but nonetheless, a beautiful rarity.

Description
Emerald is not a usual or common name. And Emerald was not a usual or common girl.

I first encountered my mystery in the dark ages of my third grade year. The peculiar thing about third grade is that all eight year-old girls are basically the same. They may appear unique, but are defined by the dolls they play with and the boys they crush on. But the peculiar thing about Emerald was that she was defined by neither dolls nor by boys, but by books. Which particular book she kept her young nose it was no matter; whether she read Dr. Seuss or The Catcher in the Rye, the oddity of her seemingly bizarre interest remained the same.

The other children took it upon themselves to tease Emerald whenever the fates allowed, but it didn't seem to have any effect on the quiet little girl. To my own current shame, I occasionally took part in the teasing, but only when pressured by the other children. Eight year-old me didn't exactly understand the concept of insults, so the best I could come up was calling her by the name of Emma, rather than the shining green name actually bestowed upon her. I expected her feelings to be hurt or to at least annoy her in the slightest way, but every time I spoke to her, she didn't so much as roll her big eyes, but rather, smile vaguely.

I can't quite recall exactly when the first time I found one was, but I know that I was very young. I believe that I had matured to the latter year of grade five on the day that I indifferently sauntered home from Ruther Elementary School and caught eye of a gleam on the sidewalk with a stunning verdigris. Being ten, I put no thought into how the glimmering stone had come to be resting on the sidewalk by the street in my mediocre town or who it might possibly belong to or the fact that they most likely want it back, but grinned and took the beautiful rarity along with me.

I never showed the spectacular and miniscule rock to anyone.

Ruther Middle School was basically a haven of despair to anyone who stepped inside it. Anyone, that is, except Emerald. Though her friends had changed and the teasing had died down, the company of books remained present. Dolls had been replaced by gossip, though boys had not been replaced at all, and rumors spread through the school like a plague. But while every other sixth though eight grader in the building engaged in in-depth discussions about who was dating who, Emerald's nose stayed out of the gossip, and in the books. It seemed pretty straightforward; she just liked to read. Well, so it seemed to everyone else. But I couldn't help but wonder. What was she reading about? How did she become so absorbed by words on pages? What did she think about? Somewhere in the back of my mind, these questions were omnipresent; I couldn't cease my wonderings about the devoutly focused look in her eyes. I found myself absorbed in those emerald green eyes the same way that Emerald herself was absorbed in the black and white words.

The little green stone had not crossed my mind again. Until I found another one, that is. I was in my backyard, carrying out the task of watering my mother's garden at the time when, just like before, I noticed a gleam of green. But when I looked down to identify it; the sun no longer hit it in the correct way to make it visible. I shrugged, figuring I had imagined its glimmer and carried on my chore. However, as I watered a little red plant, I saw it again.  With much confusion, I set down the watering hose and dug through the grass. It wasn't long before I found another spectacular stone, here in my mediocre backyard, just like the one I had discovered three years earlier.

I placed my new beauty alongside my old one; safe in a pocket in a bag in a box in a drawer in my bedroom, safe from the world and the harm and the hurt that comes with it.

I had known Emerald for five years now, but when I thought about it, I had never really known her at all. So, somehow, after all of these years, I finally went about befriending her. But even now, she remained a mystery. She would go into brief tales of The Adventures of Being Emerald, but never bothered to specify why or how these events took place. Still, I couldn't help but listen in awe.

As the years went on and the two of us grew closer, our range of conversational topics broadened. We would have meaningful and thought-provoking discussions about life and its massive complexity over treys of school-prepared hamburgers. She would always mention how we all have a purpose, but someday and somehow, our purposes will eventually be forgotten and a new generation of people with a new handful of purposes will take over the job of living when this one is no longer fit. When she spoke of this, she never seemed depressed or troubled in the slightest sense, but would smile the same vague smile that she had since so many years before.

The obscurity of high school was hard to comprehend, despite the fact that I only had weeks left of it. It seemed that a part of me was still young and vulnerable, trapped in third grade when all of the girls and their dolls and their boys were the same – all with the exception of Emerald. I gazed at my reflection, and it occurred to me that I hadn't really changed. Sure, I was older physically, but everything had learned, I had learned from her, not figured out for myself. And now high school was nearing its end, and soon I would have to face the world and the harm and the hurt that comes with it on my own. Also, I was wearing a tux.

If high school in itself was a difficult enough concept to understand, then senior prom was something of a paradox. And the most remarkable part of it all, I was going with Emerald. As friends, but still going with her. I took a breath and rang the doorbell and her mother answered and welcomed me into their home as if I had never been there before.

Then, like a miraculous gift from the heavens, Emerald and all of her beauty came down the stairs and into her living room. She wore a shining green gown that not only matched her name, but also her eyes. Her hair was pulled into a simple bun, and like the glistening green stone, she shone through the mediocrity: a beautiful rarity. Pictures were taken and goodbyes were said, and she and I made our departure.

Even if we were there as friends, as we were photographed for the five-hundredth time that night, I couldn't help but wonder how I of all people came to be standing beside her. I wanted to ask her. I wanted to make an hour long speech about how beautiful she looked. I wanted to dance with her. I wanted to kiss her. But for some unexplained reason, I did none of these things.

We danced (though not in the slow manner that I so much desired) and we talked to our friends and we talked to each other and we talked to other people and I looked ordinary and she looked stunning and we danced and we talked and the night was perfect. Never again would I have a night like this. It couldn't end. I wasn't ready. Not now. Not ever.

But it did end. I woke up the next morning and it was over.

We stood there in our caps and gowns, smiling and talking. Not about school or about each other or about books or about life and its massive complexity, but simply talking. We had made it through the monotony that was elementary school, then the haven of despair that was middle school, and now the unexpected adventure that was high school. Now, we stood there at the end of it all, talking with all the simplicity of one of those third grade girls.

Somewhere in the back of our minds, I think that we were both well aware that this was the end, but it seemed that neither of us were able to comprehend or accept the reality of it. As soon as graduation ended, Emerald would leave for a road trip with some of her friends, and as soon as the road trip ended, she and I would both begin the new life that is college.

As we had all predicted ever since we learned of the concept, she was our valedictorian. She delivered a beautifully written speech about how we may be done with school, but all of us – herself included – had a great deal left to learn, not by the means of college, but by life. We were the start of a new generation, a generation that was to step forward and fulfill its purpose and it was up to us to ensure that the next generation would do the same. She joked that the fate of the world was in our hands ("no pressure") and I wondered if the fate of my world was in her hands.

We applauded, we walked, we got our diplomas, we threw our caps in the air, we cheered, and then it was over. There were tears and there was laughter and she hugged me and I hugged her and we promised to always keep in touch and it was over.

Several days passed. Emerald was driving around the country with her friends and I was still here at home preparing for college. It felt strange, really, more than anything, not seeing her every day. But we had texted each other, our conversations now being carried out by means of waves or radioactivity or however texting worked. Then again, I didn't understand how our conversations worked at all. They just did. So, I supposed that this was no different.

Several more days passed. This time I heard nothing from her. Absolutely nothing.

Every time we think of something, we must reform the memory in its entirety. When we stop thinking about something so often, we forget it more and more until we forget it and completely and it is lost forever. Most people don't spend their time recalling insignificant events, so these memories are all-too-often lost before they even become memories.

Procrastination is a beautiful, terrible thing. I was going about my usual means of it, scrolling through an abundance of poorly-written posts written up by people I hardly knew. Most of my friends were still in the process of typing up multiple sentimental graduation-related posts per day, so nothing struck me as particularly interesting or thought-provoking, until, like thunder on a sunny day, I read:

R.I.P emerald Richards
I would have expected my heart to pound or my knees to weaken or my lungs to stop breathing or my brain to melt or anything. But all I could do was stare at the screen and assure myself that it was not true. The status had been posted by some popular blonde girl I had never really known well, so it could very well be some disgusting prank, or she tagged the wrong person, or anything. Not this. Emerald was not-

The page refreshed automatically and more statuses flooded in.

emerald Richards, you will be missed. We love you and are keeping you and your family in our prayers.

I hope heaven has a big library. We think of you every day. emerald Richards

emerald Richards We miss u

emerald Richards May the LORD bless you and keep you. May the LORD make his face shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. May the LORD lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace. <3

This wasn't happening. That was all I could think. No. I couldn't think at all. No. No. This wasn't true. No. It wasn't happening. No. No. It couldn't be. No.

I clicked on one of the many places where emerald Richards could be found on my screen. I held my breath as it loaded. Then Emerald's big green eyes stared at me happily from the top-left corner while wall posts and statuses trampled and suffocated me from the rest of it.

I had that feeling that happens right before you cry, where your chest burns and your throat condenses and your stomach does somersaults and you're so overwhelmed by it all that all you can do is sob. But no tears came. I just sat there stupidly with all the side-effects of crying but no tears and panicked. Maybe I was hyperventilating. Maybe I wasn't breathing at all. I couldn't tell.

In the midst of it all, I clicked on the bar to write a post, but had nothing to say. I couldn't even think straight.

All I knew was that I still wanted to make an hour long speech about how beautiful she was. I still wanted to dance with her. I still wanted to kiss her. But for some unexplained reason, I would never have the chance to do any of these things.

It couldn't end. I wasn't ready. Not now. Not ever.

But it did end. I slammed the laptop shut and she was gone.

I had only attended one other funeral in my life, that of a great-great uncle I had never even known. I was nine years old and it was weird and it was awkward and there were a lot of old people there, and that was all I thought of it. Now, I stood here in the same tuxedo that I had worn only weeks before. It had been used to dance with her, and now it was being used to mourn her. Her mother had somehow gathered the strength to open the door for the other guests (a distraction for herself, I supposed). I remembered how her eyes had lit up when she let me into their home before prom, and felt something I had no word for when she opened the door for me now.
Today was ironically and nauseatingly sunny, the sort of weather that Emerald would have adored. We – her friends and her family and random people from school who had probably never even spoken a word to her – were all gathered in a little white church, either crying or pretending to. Very few words were spoken, and when they were, they always seemed to be something along the lines of either "I'm sorry for your loss" or "She was exceedingly smart".

We were allowed to see her, but I couldn't muster the courage to do so. I had never seen a dead body at all, having only attended one other funeral, and if there was any body I did not want to bare the sight of, it was hers. Something about my lack of a desire to see her for one last time felt wrong. Selfish. Cowardly. I went about pacing around and nodding at other guests because nobody knew how else to greet one another and avoiding the corner of the room where they had her, until I couldn't hold myself together anymore. I still did not want to see her. But something inside of me couldn't bare not to.

They had closed her eyes. She could have been asleep, but she had once told me that she sleeps on her side, not her back, and I considered that perhaps this was yet another misconception that I and everybody else had about her. I would never see those eyes again. The ones that were big and bright and matched her name were now behind closed lids, and there for eternity. But then I noticed that she still had the same vague smile that she had at prom, which she wore during our discussions about life and its massive complexity, and that had been on her face since third grade when everything was simple and I pretended her name was Emma.

The service went on for an hour or so. The preacher spoke about how she was now at home with her Lord and savior Jesus Christ, her family spoke about what a wonderful girl she was, her friends did the same as her family, and the random people from school spoke about her intelligence and how much they wish they had gotten to know her (something I highly doubt they would be saying under different circumstances).

During a totally false account of how much one girl (who had never said one nice word to Emerald in her life) loved her and wished they could have been better friends, I found myself thinking about memories again. About how things that we find insignificant are not remembered, so they are forgotten; and about how in order to remember something fully, we must reform it in its entirety, all inside of our minds, and if we aren't able to do so, then parts of it are lost. It made me realize how alike we truly are, people and memories. After all, once we cease to be a person, a memory is what we become.
The burial was to be for her family only, so, like many other things, her funeral was over. My father had dropped me off at the little white church, he had also insisted on coming with me, but I had insisted back on coming by myself, and due to the situation, he didn't argue. I knew that it was time to leave, but I couldn't endure a car ride back home, he would either try to make meaningless conversation with me or we could sit in the midst of a silence loud enough to measure on The Richter Scale. Either possibility was unbearable, so, in my tuxedo and my tears, I decided to walk home.

It was about ten miles to my house, but that didn't bother me. I was bothered that the world had presented me with the best gift imaginable. It had allowed me to be the one lucky boy who stood by her for five thousand prom photographs, to discuss life and its massive complexity with her, to get away with calling her by the wrong name, to get to know her, to love her. I had done all of these things, but it had never been enough, and before it ever could be, it had torn her away from me when I needed her the most. What did I do to deserve this? More and most importantly, what did she do to deserve this? She had said herself that she had much to learn. Her life had been wasted with someone like me, who treated her more like a fountain of wisdom than a human being and didn't realize it until it was too late and he was walking home from her funeral. She still had books she hadn't read, places she'd never traveled to, Adventures of Being Emerald that she had never been on. Her life was incomplete, as was mine without her. We had promised to keep in touch.

Ten miles did, however, turn out to be more than it seemed. I sat, in my tuxedo, on the side of the road, angry and empty and exhausted. My eyes seemed to have run out of tears they had not already cried and my head seemed to have out of thoughts that it had not already had and my mouth seemed to have run out of curses it had not already shouted. So, I just sat there.

Then, out of the side of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something green and glistening. This time, it didn't take me long to find it, sitting in the grass by the sidewalk by the road. I held it in my hand like the precious thing it was. Somehow, while sitting by the side of the road in my average and completely mediocre town, I was holding something beautiful, an emerald. A slight smile crept its way onto my face as I admired its miraculous beauty, and remembered our promise to keep in touch. There was no telling how it had gotten here, or how the others before it had, only that it was a blessing and a gift that they had. This reminded me of what she had said, about how we all have a purpose, and every purpose is fulfilled somehow. If she taught me anything, it is that we as individuals can't live forever, but that doesn't mean that life will not go on. More people will pick up the job of living wherever we left off, and we must help them prepare for the world and the harm and the hurt that comes with it.  That was exactly what she had done for me.

Though our story had ended far too early, and my shining green epiphany had not healed the empty place where I had kept her, I was lucky that I had been presented with the gift that was our story to begin with. She shone through the mediocrity, and that was what my life would have been without her.  I clutched the beautiful green stone as if my life depended on it, and my life thus far, because I had been lucky enough to know her, was flawed and tear-stained, but nonetheless, a beautiful rarity.