Sabrina

Looking back at the life and death of a childhood friend

I didn’t know she was so into butterflies, but here they are, decorating the borders of the most grim corkboard photo collage I’d ever seen. They’re all white and silver, patternless and emotionless. The push-pins aren’t much better. They’re clear and scattered all over this thing. I look away from them and at one of her pictures. I look at her face, brilliant and full of the soul this board lacks. She was a gymnast. She’d just won a medal.

I remember a day from five years ago. We were fifth graders and, despite the chill of the late February air, we were excited for recess. The moment lunch was over, we collected our coats and gloves and formed a line at the end of the hall, waiting for the go-ahead from the lunch ladies to burst out from the doors into the world of snow-dusted slides and frostbite.

The moment we were given the signal, the twenty-six of us flew out the doors and dispersed like blown dust. Most kids were trekking through the two feet of snow, stomping out paths and constructing walls to resume their legendary snowball war. The difference between those kids and the seven or so of us confined to the pavement was the Yukon-grade winter gear they wore. I envied them. I stood at the end of the pavement, peering down over the shoveled ledge that divided me from the fresh-fallen snow and their warzone. Wearing my mere coat and boots, I’d be given a five minute time-out if I dared to venture in. I resign myself to a game of foursquare and join some of the girls that were playing.

I took my position in one of the four colored squares on the ground and assessed my opponents, eyes squinted against the brisk wind. Allison was tall and fragile, much like a newborn giraffe. She was nice to everybody, though, so I never targeted her. Cylver was stronger and nearly as tall as Allison. She was a worthy foe and I expected a decent battle from her. Tiarra was in the final corner, but she always hit the ball out. I wasn’t worried about her. Sabrina stood on the side, waiting and watching in silence. She’d get to join the moment Allison or Tiarra messed up. Cylver served the ball.

It’s easy to forget about the cold when you’re nine and playing such an intense game. Moving kept our blood rushing and we lost track of time. Tiarra went out at one point so she stepped out from her square and we all shifted up one position. Sabrina stayed on the outside. Tiarra pointed back at the empty square.

“You’re in,” Tiarra told her. Sabrina looked at us and said she just felt like watching. Tiarra shrugged and took her place in the empty square. We continued to play until the ball flew past my hand and bounded across the pavement. I immediately took off after it and managed to stop it before it entered the snow, but when I turned to run the ball back, I found myself frozen.

Allison was shouting and running for the nearest lunch lady. My eyes followed Allison’s frantic pointing and I saw Cylver, Sabrina, and Tiarra standing on the squares. I was confused. For the shortest moment, I wondered if Allison was just really enthusiastic about getting the ball back from the snow, since it was surely headed out of our bounds. I walked closer, cautiously, and felt my sixth sense wake up. It was a wave washing over me with a toxic and dreadfully slow pace; a creeping predecessor to panic. Tiarra and Cylver took a few steps away from Sabrina as the lunch lady took their place. I stayed a safe distance from Sabrina and looked as closely as I could, trying to understand.

Sabrina’s lips were blue. Almost purple. Her thin, pale skin had somehow grown paler and her eyes were open and empty. I didn’t hear the lunch lady’s words, but I knew she was trying to get Sabrina’s attention. She was failing, though. Sabrina was shivering, I thought, and possibly actually freezing. Her arms were stiff at her sides and her jaw seemed tight enough to have broken her teeth. I can still see it.

The lunch lady’s voice rose higher in pitch and urgency. She grabbed Sabrina’s arm and shouted to the second lunch lady who had been watching the kids in a snowball war. The two women grabbed Sabrina by her arms and spoke to her, somehow breaking her spell. They walked Sabrina back inside and a third lunch lady came out to watch us for the rest of recess. They sent Sabrina home.

When I asked later what had happened to Sabrina during recess that day, I was told she was stressed out because of her parents’ recent divorce. They called it a seizure.

I’m still standing at the corkboard photo collage, staring at the smile on her face. The bridge of her nose crinkled when she smiled and her eyes squinted just a bit. I could still see the blue of her eyes, even when she laughed. The image fractures me.

I want to see her. I don’t decide whether the reason is because of my morbidity or because I’d like to say goodbye, but it’s vital that I see her either way. I’m moving forward in the line and I keep my mouth shut and my eyes low. I watch the feet of the people in front of me and I trail behind them. I pass rings of flowers and more photos. There’s a lavender bouquet. I hear the voice of another classmate, someone I haven’t spoken to in years. She passes me and my eyes don’t follow. They don’t need to. I recognize the voice and I’m sorry she has to be here.

The line moves. I’d like to be able to tell you the color of the casket, but I’ve seen too many to remember which was hers. Either light blue, light grey, or white. I do remember that hers was set up differently. While at most viewings the casket is positioned so the body’s head is on the left side, Sabrina’s was the opposite. Apparently her ear had been irreparably cut in the accident and they’d chosen to position her this way to try and hide it a bit. Because of this, I saw her a few steps sooner than I was expecting.

I had known her since we were in kindergarten. It strikes me that her story ends here and mine has yet to. It’s the most influential reminder of mortality I’ve ever experienced, but I like to justify the sadness of it by explaining that it has helped me live life without fear and with love. There’s really no time for anything else.

She’s wearing her cheer outfit. It’s dark and light blue with silver and white accents. Her skin is still pale as it ever was, but her color isn’t right. I don’t dwell on it. Her fingers are intertwined over her stomach and her nails have been painted, alternating her two favorite colors. Light green and purple. Her younger sister is sitting beside the casket in a chair they’d moved specifically for her. She touches Sabrina’s fingers, careful not to move her. Her sister asks their father, whose composure is far worse than her own, “Why do her hands look like that?”

I’d feel greedy if I took any longer. My feet move me away from the casket, away from Sabrina, away from her sister, and away from her dad. Only now do I realize my vision is flexing from my tears. I stay silent. There isn’t much to say.