His eyes are closed. A smile forms in the corner of his mouth as he lies there motionless in the summer sun; the warm air cascading gently across his face and rustling his hair in tender strokes. He is in his favourite place on earth, home.

It is the middle of summer and he is in his garden with his back against the oak tree that he has adored since he was a boy. He knows every bump and curve on the tree as he has climbed it almost daily over the past 18 years, often in a game where the tree gave him a lofty advantage over the hapless Indians below or a safe place to hide when Nanny was displeased with him for some misdemeanour or another.

Just recently he has taken to just lying at the base of the tree, with his back to the trunk, that cradles him like a nursing mother comforts a child against her bosom.  He loves this tree, he always has. He cannot imagine a more perfect afternoon than this, lying in the garden, on his own in quiet serenity, the only sound being that of his sister’s children playing somewhere out the back. And when he gets hungry, after a few hours that would feel like an eternity, he would amble back to the house and enjoy a long and carefree lunch that would send him even deeper into a state of idle relaxation. Not a care in the world; he feels so at peace with the world and with himself. He breathes in deeply and fills his lungs with warm sweet smelling air. His mother’s orchard is heavily laden with fruit and is ripe for

He breathes in deeply and fills his lungs with warm sweet smelling air. His mother’s orchard is heavily laden with fruit and is ripe for picking. The fruit is casting abroad its aroma inviting everyone to come and take hold of the soft luscious harvest that waits. He can also make out the perfume of the lavender bushes that adorn the border. If he opened his eyes he would see the tall stalks of purple soldiers waving in the breeze like a tranquil sea, gently moving backwards and forward in uniformed harmony.

The children’s voices in the distance are becoming a little too animated for his liking and their childish screaming is enough to disturb his peace. Some voices are louder than others and he chuckles to himself as he pictures his younger brother George getting far too agitated as he bosses whatever game he is part of. Sometimes father would have to intervene and ask George to calm down as he became increasingly frustrated that the house servants were not playing the game in the way that he wanted. He stretches his legs and turns to get comfortable; he could lie here forever and is determined that nothing will make him get up. Not that he could anyway, tiredness has taken hold of his body and he is a dead-weight; nothing more than another piece of the landscape into which he is melting.

He wishes that George would pipe down now. His loud screeching is beginning to disrupt his slumber. If he has to get up and march over to the house he will be very angry and won’t be afraid to show it. Although he loves George to bits, he can be a most infuriating chap.  Once, he ran off to tell a large group of travellers to get off of his father’s land or else he would beat them all severely – he was only eight years old and he was lucky to be found by our groundsman before they taught him some well-deserved manners. Also, the carefree way he skipped to the recruiting office when the Germans started to cause a nuisance in Belgium, even against the advice of our father… George was always ready to step in and say his piece without thinking through the consequences.

After a few more minutes, and another twist and turn to get comfortable against the tree, he realises that his peaceful slumber has indeed been interrupted. He tried to push it to the back of his mind, but the noise has now become intolerable and he is irked by the mindless shouting. Also, the refreshing cool breeze has disappeared and he is starting to suffocate in this oppressive heat. The air is no longer clean and fresh, and he coughs as he struggles to gulp down any air. This just won’t do…he needs to get up and head to the house. “Curse you George” he mutters under his breath, “will you stop that shouting! Enough is enough. “

He opens his eyes…

Instantly the bright sunlight has turned into a thick choking smoke that obscures the natural light, and instead of soft grass, he is sitting waist-deep in mud and grease. He thrashes around completely disorientated, looking for the safety of his house but it is not there…where is he? Nothing looks familiar, he is not in his garden at all, he has no recollection of this place. Then he notices that the shouting is not coming from his brother George in the distance, it is himself. In fact, as he sits upright against the tree, he realises that he is screaming uncontrollably. Why? Why is he screaming? What is wrong?

Another explosion sends a cloud of earth and stone against his face and he flinches from it, trying to curl into the loving arms of the stump behind him for protection. The tree is rejecting him. There is no safety here; there is no reassurance, no love. He is frightened and alone as he shakes in terror at what is happening. His ears ring to the point that he cannot focus on anything around him, he shakes his head but his senses are totally disoriented and all he can hear is his own muffled screaming and the loud thud of explosions.

He looks around with glazed eyes unable to focus on anything until he looks down at his body. He realises that he is soaked to the skin and his strange torn and bloodied clothes are stuck to him. The material looks like wet paper that could easily be rubbed away if you touched it. He adjusts his gaze and continues to look down to his legs and realises that they are not there, instead, he sees two mangled stumps where his legs used to be. He screams again, this time, it is more fierce and chilling and he vomits onto the ground as the sight of his torn body registers in his brain. Where is he? What is going on? Where is his family?

Through the fear comes a strong resolution to take control, he needs answers. There…over there, look it’s George. He would recognise George’s blonde curly hair anywhere. It’s as golden as the sun and always looks so beautiful, even against the foul mud that clings to him. He finds he can form words in his throat and manages to shout  to his brother…”George? George? What the hell is going on? George!” His brother is not answering. He is kneeling only a few feet away from him, with his back turned. “Blast him”, he thought, “what is he doing now?” He grasps the earth beneath him and shuffles nearer to his brother…”George, damn you”…he shuffles nearer and nearer, the thick choking air almost making him faint as he moves across the ground. He grabs his shoulder…”George, what the hell is …” The body of his younger brother falls backwards and sprawls on the earth. The screaming starts again. George’s face is not there. Half of his head is missing and his body is lifeless and limp… “George!!!!” he screams, but no one can hear him. Another explosion, another cloud of earth sprays against him and fills his eyes and mouth with rancid mud that smells of burning. He is immediately sick and slumps onto his side.

What is going on? Why is he not home? He sees a man running towards him! “help” he whimpers…”help me”. He reaches out his arms to be picked up like a young baby desperately in need of love and comforting. He doesn’t know if it is sweat or tears in his eyes, but he knows that he needs to get out of here. The man stops in front of him, kneels down, and unfastens something from his belt. ”A drink! Oh yes please,” he mumbles to himself, barely above a whisper. He reaches out to the man in front of him grasping at the buttons on his coat, tenderly entreating him to save him from the unnatural and godless scene that he finds himself part of. But no drink is offered, no warm voice meets his ears, no reassuring hand comforts his own cold and bloodied.

And then he sees it. Not the soft rounded edges of a flask, but the cold gleam of a blade. Slowly he looks up with fear raging through his body, and for the first time, he is able to make out the face of his ‘rescuer’. The man towering over him is young and rugged but stares back expressionlessly with cold empty eyes that betray no human emotion. Their faces are inches apart. The stranger has not stopped to offer salvation, he is not reaching out to help him, but with brutal gentleness, he slips the blade deep into his chest and twists it as it pierces his heart. His body spasms and immediately his eyes begin to mist over.

All around him becomes calm and the only sound he can hear is the soft speech of his companion who is now whispering something in an unfamiliar tongue. Although slipping towards unconsciousness, he feels that he recognises the pattern of words being uttered; confused and afraid, to his disbelief it sounds like the Lord’s Prayer although it has never sounded as empty as it does now. The stranger’s voice quietens to an echo and all else turns silent. With the knife still protruding from his tunic, he falls back and his eyes finally blacken and he comes to rest with his head touching the golden locks of his brother.

Together they gaze heavenwards with unseeing eyes as the mud continues to swallow their bodies and entomb them in a land that is far from home. Two brothers lost forever in Northern France.

I’ve been in a slew of bad relationships and situations. The events have varied: the slick quarterback that cheated on me with his ex-girlfriend; quitting my meager drive-thru job with the hopes of obtaining a big girl career (never happened); the almost-fiancé that, after four years, still loved Evan Williams more than me.

I’m not asking for sympathy – I put myself in these places time and time again. Like a moth to a flame.

However, the only thing that remained consistent is my best friend, my second half, my heart and soul: my little sister, Maria.

Maria is three years younger than me and responded with eye rolls in high school, “Yes, I’m the little sister.” We were polar opposites. While she planned her presidency for clubs at school, I planned how to haul kegs through the woods. She would be asleep by 8 PM for volleyball practice in the morning, and I would sneak out the windows to roam through the night.

We never hung out and, more importantly, we never talked. She was embarrassed by my antics, and I was embarrassed I wasn’t a better sister. She opened up to me ever-so-slightly last summer. “You think you could dye a little strip of my hair purple? I can’t reach.” So Maria and I both had strips of periwinkle in our hair for the summer of 2015. That is, until, she landed her big girl internship at Disney.

“Christina, they made me dye it back! It’s not in the dress code!” Months later, once she was home, she would look at me and say, “You wanna get sister tattoos?” The one thing she never wanted, and now she wanted to get one with me, of all people.

 We both carry keyblades (yes, those keyblades) fashioned in the shape of our childhood home house keys with each other’s initial.

I was forgiven. Somehow, and I am still very unsure how this unfolded, but Maria and I now live together in Athens. We both attend The University of Georgia and haven’t killed each other yet. Maria will casually have a glass of wine with dinner, and I’ll rush home to finish homework before passing out during the nightly news.

Our high school fights of playing music too loudly have morphed to cuddling on the couch, watching the newest Good Mythical Morning episode or, yes, playing Kingdom Hearts.

She student teaches, volunteers at churches, helps with Relay for Life, plans events for the community…and asks me to help now. Do you think you could take pictures at this event? Do you want to drive around and put out collection canisters? Do you want to just go have a beer? It’s hard to see past the awkward teenage stage. If you asked me ten years ago if Maria and I could live harmoniously under one roof without parental referees, I’d think you were kidding.

But, here we are, almost a year living together. No fights. No screaming. An occasional prank or two, but nothing too damaging.

The fact is this: all relationships are difficult, dating or otherwise, but the people that you should keep on your team are the same ones you wanted to pick last in neighborhood kickball tournaments.

The same ones you kicked out of your tree fort for spying; the same ones who, after years of self-hatred and destruction, pick you up, dust you off, and love you anyway.   Maria, you remain everything to me. I am so proud to call you my sister.

(Written by Nkenna Njoku)

Whoever said “Time heals all wounds” had obviously never met my brother.

It’s been over a year and I’m still learning how to do this crazy life thing without my best friend and little brother. Whenever something good or bad happens I always want to run next door to his room, text or call call him just to hear some uplifting words or hear his reaction.

The best way to summarize this whole situation is with 3 words, “It takes time.”

There are five stages of grief. In the last 19 months I’ve fluctuated constantly, sometimes on a daily basis between all five.

Denial

This stage seems to come most frequently. When I first got the news I refused to believe it. I was confused and tried to block out all the things I was being told. At one point I called his phone multiple times just to try and prove everyone wrong when he answered.

And the weeks passed. Denial would come in the form of waking up and forgetting that anything had ever happened and having to relive the situation all over.

More recently denial has been simple; whenever I feel myself getting sad I tell myself that my brother is on a long beautiful vacation, and I’ll see him someday soon.

Anger

Anger was simple. I felt an anger that I had never felt before. I was angry with anybody and anything involved.

“Why did this have to happen to my brother when there are terrible people committing heinous crimes and walking around freely??” “Why didn’t they help him?” “ How can they claim to be his ‘friends’ but nobody can seem to explain what really happened?” “Why did they invite him to such a place? “What if he had been somewhere else with other people?” “WHY, God?”

It was the type of anger where all you can do is cry and feel defeated because you know that there is nothing that you can do within your power to change the outcome of the situation. Anger because you don’t have answers.

For months I felt like a time bomb that could explode at any moment. People around me would use certain trigger words and phrases like “drown”, or “I’m dead” and it took everything in me to refrain from 1) bursting into tears and 2) giving them a verbal tongue lashing about their poor selection of words.

Bargaining

Bargaining came in the form of me constantly begging during my morning and nightly prayers. “Please God, I will never sin again, I will always be kind, I will never stray from you again, if you just let this all be a dream.”

But every morning following those evening prayers I would wake up and the outcome would still be the same. I was stuck with this new reality and there was nothing I could do about it. Even when I saw my brother for the last time I thought, “well maybe if I just hug him or hold his hand he’ll wake up and make a joke.”

Depression

I got to a point in my depression where I selfishly thought that dying would be much better than living because at least then I would be able to hang out with my brother. Dying was the perfect option. Feeling nothing was better than hurting every minute of every day.

If I died I wouldn’t have to be in constant pain. There would be no bills to worry about, no people to deal with, and most importantly, I wouldn’t struggle with telling myself every morning “just make it through the day.”

It was then that I also got to a point where I questioned my faith. There were many days where I would just be sitting in my room for hours crying and wanting to feel something other than pain and crying out to God, “If you are a merciful and good God why would you allow me to feel this kind of pain? why would you kill my brother?”

3 weeks after my brother’s accident I went back to school and resumed my adult responsibilities the best I knew how. The same week that I resumed class and work, I also celebrated my 21st birthday.

The morning of my birthday I rummaged through some old letters on my desk and found the birthday card my brother had sent me for my 20th birthday. I sat there staring at it, rereading it, and just pictured him singing “Happy Birthday” and a warm hug from him. It wasn’t right. I told myself that I wasn’t allowed to enjoy that day or any other holiday for that matter.

Initially I didn’t make any plans and had no expectations for my birthday, but with the help of an amazing teammate, Tunya, and even better friend I had the best birthday given the circumstances. Although I found myself doing what some would consider enjoyable I still found myself wanting to cry and thinking “I wish my brother was here so I could be happy again, I shouldn’t be having fun without him.”

During summer session I would sit in class struggling to take notes because I could barely see through my tears. Many days I just wanted to be left alone, in the darkness, to just grieve in peace without being asked ‘when are you going to go back to “normal?’” or being interrogated about the whole situation and having to relive the emotions from when I first found out.

I often found myself laying wide awake at night pacing up and down in my room. And when I was fortunate enough to get a few minutes of sleep I found myself quickly woken by a nightmare.

The hardest days were the ones when I woke up unable to discern between reality and dreams and found myself reliving the horror midway through dialing his phone number, sending a text, or logging on to any social media outlet and seeing the numerous “I’m sorry for your loss” posts.

As always, time went on and I adapted to school and this new life. Just when I thought I was making small progress, I was inundated with thoughts of the future. I realized that my brother would not be there for many milestones.

-My brother will never see me graduate from college

-My brother will never see me get married.

-I won’t be able to celebrate any more birthdays with my brother

-My children will never get to meet their Uncle Vince

Graduation seemed to be the hardest to come to terms with because it was the most meaningful and was happening in the very near future. Graduation was also just 4 days shy of Vince’s accident, so I knew my emotions would be running high.

The afternoon before graduation I found myself sitting in Rooker Hall with 2 of my teammates reflecting on the last few years and our plans for the future. I expressed to them my disappointment that my brother would not be there the following evening witnessing my commencement ceremony. My teammate Sarah said to me “Just because he’s not here doesn’t mean he didn’t get the invite. He’s going to have the best seat in the stadium.”

It was then that I knew that it was ok to move on with my life and no longer feel guilty for having fun or achieving wonderful things without my brother because he was always there with me, in my heart.

Acceptance

There were and still are so many unanswered questions. The lack of closure is what kept me up at night or kept me from focusing in class.

For a long time I thought that having an answer or just having someone to blame would make me feel better. It came to a point where I had to silence my thoughts and say, “ok Lord, I don’t understand at all what you’re doing but I trust you.”

I also had to tell myself two things:

that all those questions didn’t matter

even if I had the answers to all my questions would it put my heart and mind at ease? Honestly, probably not.

We live in a death fearing society. I think it is foolish for any of us to deny death or think that we are immune from death.

One thing that I have learned in the last 19 months, although cliche, is that life is short and anything can happen at any time, whether you are ready or not. I have learned to take things at face value and always embrace people with constant, unconditional, and selfless love. I had no desire to learn how to live without my brother, but I had to because life continues whether you’re ready or not.

You can learn how to live without someone, even your best friend. It won’t be easy, and it’s going to take some time, a long time honestly, but you can do it. Just remember that small progress is still progress. Never let anyone tell you how long you should grieve for, it’s a process and it takes time.

One thing that settles my heart is knowing that however many remaining years I have to spend on this Earth without my brother pales in comparison to an eternity in God’s kingdom. Until then I just have to remind myself he is on a beautiful long vacation.

I can’t wait for the day we can pretend we have our own cooking show again, or he can jump out from behind the tree in the front yard and spray me with his water gun when I’m running, or Saturday morning cleaning and taking breaks to have a sing or dance off. But most importantly I can’t wait for the day Vince can give me a long hug.

A wise man told me this year “Quality of life is not measured by quantity of life.” Vince taught me so much and did so much in just 19 years. He was the kid that loved to run drills in the backyard and put in the extra work even in the off season. He was also the kid that loved to volunteer with Hands on Atlanta on the weekends to build homes for families in need.

God gave me 19 years with my best friend and I will cherish them until I take my last breath on this earth because they were the best. We used to do EVERYTHING together. We had so many jokes we basically spoke a different language. Some nights we would stay up all night just being goofy and talking about the most random things.

This whole situation is so surreal. The only thing Vince hated more than tomatoes and brussel sprouts was seeing me cry and wallow in sadness.

I still don’t understand why this all happened but I do know that God has used this situation to soften my heart. I am learning to love and serve the Lord the way my brother did.

My brother would not only want me to be happy but he would want to be helping others and spreading Christ’s love. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, but with time you learn how to cope and be at peace, not in pieces.

My brother was my best friend, and he will always and forever be my best friend.