• Authors note:
    All my life, I have listened to people; their thoughts, their ideas, their hopes and their fears as well. I found all these things rather interesting, for they changed with every age group. However, something hit me, and it hit me hard. A fear I found in each and every age group was the fear of dying, to no longer be living. I have been asked questions such as “are you afraid to die sir?” and “what do think is waiting for us on the other side?” To be as honest as I can, I am not afraid to die. I do not fear something that is not real. I can say this with all my heart, but I do not believe we die. I believe we change form, we continue to exist alongside our loved ones. We keep our memories, our emotions, and our mindset. Therefore I could say I do not believe in heaven or hell either. Now if you were to ask me a question such as “Do you think you will go to heaven or hell?” fifteen years ago, I would have straight up told you that we all lived in hell, with unseen eyes watching and waiting for us, and that there was no such a place called “heaven” waiting for us beyond the clouds. There is a reason for such an answer as that, and if you’re willing to listen I will share with you something unbelievable, and neurotic. Let me take you down a back road, fifteen years into the past, and there I will show you how one wrong move can change the lives of people around you and how it can manipulate your own thoughts.
    “People living deeply have no fear of death.”

    Chapter one: sprouting new leaves.
    “Daddy, I think it’s perfect” Winnie yelled jumping into his arms. Moments before you could find her doing nothing but complaining of how upset she was that we were moving and how she promised never to forgive my father for it. I believe she was upset about leaving mother behind. I wasn’t sad we had left her behind; we couldn’t have brought her with us anyways. We or at least I didn’t quite feel like leading people to believe we were attracted to necrophilia. That was not something I needed at the time.

    Anyways, I was not as excited as Winnie. I was far from it. Something about the house’s layout, its walls, its paint; something about all that was unnerving. I don’t know why I was the only one that felt that way, but my father would always tell me that I worried too much, just like my mother. I hated when he compared me to her. We were nothing alike.
    Five or so months before we decided to move, there was a terrible accident. It was time for our weekly family trip. They were just small afternoon trips in which my father Jack, my mother Alice, Winnie, and I Lawrence would find something for the family to do. It ranged anywhere from riding bikes down the neighborhood, a picnic at the park, to even rock skipping at the pond.

    It was somewhat of a cold, drafty day when we arrived at the park which is where Winnie chose we should go. There were these swings there that we could hardly get Winnie off of. You could always hear her yelling for someone to push her higher but we would eventually block her out and let her do it on her own. But this one day, there were too many children on the swings. Big children, Winnie was afraid to ask them for a turn. My mother suggested we take the small walk from the park to the pond so we could feed the ducks. It sounded like a fun idea.

    My mother was a very energetic and outgoing woman. She was always ready to do something. I think she was afraid of being bored. We were walking down the dirt path towards the pond when she suggested we race there instead. The minute she had said that, Winnie took off with me right after her, determined to beat her. My mother and father were close behind, when suddenly my mother disappeared into the trees. She was always a cheater, always looking for short cuts. We were running, and we were so close to the pond; I could see my mother dodge the trees; fade in and out between them all. I ran closer and closer to her, and then I crossed her path directly to cut her off. When I turned to say something smart, she was gone.

    Because of me, my mother had stumbled to her death. Falling forward she fell straight into a pit dug in the ground, a pit dug to contain electric wires to generate heat and light for the bathrooms near the pond. They say she died instantly.

    She had always told me her biggest fear was being burnt to death, so when I think about how she didn’t die; I feel my emotions pull back a bit.

    We never told Winnie what really happened, and my father never admitted it was my fault.

    I remember falling asleep that first night, looking at the stars from my window and praying that the past months had been a nightmare. But what I remember most was standing up to take a deep breath and looking below me. I remember seeing a boy sitting under the blossoming tree in our backyard, writing. I remember looking closer, thinking I was just tired from the trip. He wasn’t there.

    Waking up the next day, I had the chirping of birds in my ears, a bright beam of sunlight covering my body, and the smell of warm biscuits in the oven floating over me. I remember being afraid to open my eyes, not knowing if I was back home, or if I was still in that awful old house. But as I opened my eyes, hoping to see the redwood paneling of our home in Arizona, I was greeted by plain white wall paper covered in rips and stains. After throwing a quick and childish temper tantrum in my mind, I got out of bed to go to the bathroom. I came to the upstairs bathroom door, knocked once, and then louder a second time to make sure no one was there. I walked in and began my morning routine: check self out in mirror, wash face, comb hair, and determine whether or not I could get away with not brushing my teeth.

    After finally making it down to the breakfast table, I realized I was the last one up, but my father had left me a plate with a biscuit and apricot jam; just like my mother used to do.

    Even to this day, I don’t think he realized I had easily given up my mother’s ways. I was ready for change.