Two more days--Erika

                  May 23, 2015 was a day that change my life. You were gone…or so I thought. I received a text message that night saying that you had died of a heart attack. Two days later, I learned that you were in the middle of a softball game when you collapsed from a brain aneurysm. You were rushed to a nearby hospital where you were put on life support. I had two more days to see you. Two more days to thank you for being my friend. Two more days to express my deepest condolences to your family. Most importantly, I had two more days to say goodbye, but I did not know. Fifteen at the time, I had no idea how to react. I had never lost anyone so close to me before. I held my feelings in because I felt it was vital to stay strong for her parents and family. I felt it was important to show her younger sister, Mia, that it was going to be alright. Mia gained twenty more older sisters from this tragedy, but none who could replace her own. I could not hold it in anymore, I broke down after hugging her mom. Knowing that she had unexpectedly lost one of her children brought an unthinkable pain. Our prayers and her fighting fell short. I unwillingly shut down that day and the emotions I held in inevitably took over. I endured a feeling of emptiness for several months. However, I found some closer during her candlelight vigil. Several of her former teammates told stories of her quirky habits, including taking a handful of dirt and putting it into her pocket whenever she played in the outfield. Her parents also shared an outpour of love and appreciation toward the support they were given. As her father said, “We will feel pain and emptiness…but we won’t have to feel it alone.” A pastor at Crosspointe Community Church also spoke by saying, “It was a tragedy; however, it was also something we can celebrate because she was doing something that she loved, playing the beautiful game of softball.” I have found that I think about her very often. Whether it be during silent reading or the middle of an important softball game, she fills my thoughts. My softball ribbon inscribed with her name, number (21), and a brain aneurysm symbol reminds me of why I play. It reminds me to work as hard as I can, but enjoy the game like she did. I learned a lot from this tragic event. I know to play every game to the best of my ability. I proudly wear my ribbon and tell those who ask how important it is to me. I tell then what an inspirational and bright person she was. I am thankful for my family and what they do to support me. She taught me to stay optimistic and dedicated. Most importantly, I learned to appreciate everything I have for I may only have two more days.