For Captain Patrick.

It's been five years since I first heard the words "Patrick is dead."
While they are short and simple, they carry more weight than a 17-year-old girl can carry.

Most of high school is a fat blur of poor decisions, drama and self-discovery, but there are a few moments that stay clear in my mind and the night of December 15th, 2005 is one of those.
The final night of the choir show was over and I was wandering the grounds with my box, searching for my parents and friends. Someone walks up to me and says "Did you hear about Patrick?" as if something "dramatic" had happened. I shrugged it off and replied with a shake of my head, still searching for loved ones. Before this person (whom I don't remember being anyone of consequence) answered, my phone rang. It was Kristina, a friend who graduated the year before and knew Patrick well. She said those three heavy words and unloaded them onto me. I didn't believe her, thought it was some rumor he had probably started, but then it came from the person standing at my side, followed by a text and another phone call. I had to believe it then. He was gone. The rest of that night fades into blackness and the week to follow doesn't ring much of a bell either.


The funeral was held a few days later at Rose Hills Cemetery. When I was younger, we'd drive by it and Dad would say something like "People are dying to go there." It didn't seem so funny that night. My mother drove me and a few friends up there and allowed plenty of space and time for me to grieve. The chapel seemed large and full of people, yet during the daytime it seems so small and cold. So many young faces filled the isles and it took a lot of energy to get through it without bursting into tears. My ex-boyfriend, Patrick's best friend was sitting there, looking so sad and lost that I had to sit next to him and hold his hand. I could no longer hold back my tears when he got up to the alter and said a few words. He mentioned times we were together and looked right at me for a moment, almost apologetically. I tried my best to smile through the tears and be strong for the guy, but it was his words that were making me cry.

This was not my first funeral and of course, not my last, but it seemed to be the hardest at that point. (It's now second to my great grandmother's funeral. That was hard.) Being in a chapel full of teenagers and grieving parents and family didn't seem right, although less than a year before, another friend passed away in a hit and run accident. For some reason, it took longer for it to sink in that Patrick was really gone and that I'd lost him forever. It wasn't until his birthday the next year that it finally hit me.

We gathered at his mother's house, Jules, and remembered him. We made a scrapbook and jewelry with his name on it. I still have the beaded bracelet that says Captain Patrick. Jules brought out a pot full of different colored play-doh balls. She insisted we stop being angry. We were all so very angry: angry at the drunk driver of the car he was in, at the mere fact that he was gone forever and angry at ourselves for not doing more to keep him here.
She held up a blue ball: "This is the color of his eyes. Oh how they got him out of trouble."
Next was a red ball: "This represents the lips that smiled at you so devilishly, yet made you melt every time."
Then yellow: "This is his hair, although it remained short. He was a blonde baby."
She held up three more and stated what they represented, then she walked around with the pot and had us each take a piece and carefully put them together. "This is your version of Patrick. Everything we love about him all rolled into one. Now remember how you felt when you heard he was gone. Take that anger and frustration and use it on that ball of pay-doh."
We all smashed and yelled and grunted until our pretty colored balls were now grey and disgusting.
"That is what your anger does to something beautiful."
We all put the balls back into the pot and she gave us each a turn to kick it or punch it. She wanted us to get our anger out and some did it so well, that the pot dented and cracked. We were a very angry group of teens.
"We are done being angry!" Patrick's mom was on the verge of tears and truly meant what she said. She didn't want to be surrounded by anger, she wanted to feel love. And ever since then, on his birthday and the anniversary of his death, we'd all take turns visiting her and telling her stories about Patrick. Usually him being silly or doing something stupid. But we weren't allowed to be angry.
She's since moved away, but we all remember to send her e-mails with updates on how we're doing. We will never be able to replace Patrick as her child, but we do our best to not leave such an empty space.

I could go on for quite some time talking about Patrick and how I had such a bipolar relationship with him, but I feel better just keeping those moments to myself, while letting his story be told.
There's no way I'll ever be able to forget him and that's a good thing. Because he was amazing.

I miss you, Patrick.