Enjoy This

The last few times I saw him, I could not ignore the voice in the back of my head that said, "Enjoy this."

It was something to enjoy: looking upon his dark-complexioned face, his athletic form, and his deep brown eyes. Those eyes held so much in their depths... I don't think he even knew the magnetic power of his eyes. Girls flocked around him, drawn by his intelligence, light sense of humor, and flirtatious style. Not even I could resist the pull of his personality.

I would turn left out of my biology class, and begin to walk up the slope in the hall, looking straight ahead as was my usual custom. I always came upon him; walking alone, his head held high, his eyes always looking into mine. I wondered why he met my sight; did he remember me from somewhere? Did he know that I looked up to him? Did he? His dark gaze had burned deep into my own mind, leaving an undeniable impression. I could not ignore him, could not ignore the voice that said I was to enjoy his gaze...

I was at my mother's workplace when she told me; when I felt the downward pull of sadness. A lump grew in my throat and I said three words I reserved for such grave situations: "Oh my God." He had died in a car crash; he had died going the speed limit. "He had a lead foot," my mother said, but I disagreed, knowing that statement to be untrue. That was not the boy I knew; the one whose dark eyes held so much, the one who would so calmly tousle your hair as he passed you in the hall. All day long, his memory captured my thoughts, but I did not remember the voice that had told me to "enjoy this".

On the day of his funeral, I wore the customary black. My mother and I walked into the Catholic church, which was grave, solemn, yet filled with light as if to offset the mood. The pews were filled with his friends, his family, and people like me he barely knew. I could not squeeze a tear from my eyes, for I was still so shocked by the suddenness of this dark-eyed boy's departure from this world.

His coffin was closed, and I remember thinking of his body lying inside, mangled and bruised from the impact; his dark eyes open, staring not at me, but at something the living have yet to know. I remember wishing the coffin was open so I could gaze into those eyes once again; be they open or closed in death.

His father, mother and girlfriend walked up the aisle between the rows of pews, struggling to restrain powerful emotions. Grief looked almost fitting on their faces, but when I saw his little sister, my own tears began to flow. On her small face, sadness was a perversion of innocence. She should not have to suffer the death of her brother. I saw his dark eyes in an undercurrent of anguish, peering out from his sister's face. The vision brought sudden anger to me; the anger of seeing such premature loss in the eyes of the dark-eyed one’s sister.

Mourners walked up to touch the coffin, to whisper departing thoughts, as if he could hear us through the wood and through the space between life and death. If the angels could intercede and bring him back, the shock would be worth it; anything to make his little sister smile again. I often wondered if she ever would. I dropped a white flower among the masses on his coffin, and my memory returned to the private gazes he had bestowed upon me. How many girls had he held inside his dark eyes? Was I the only one? Was I like the flower, nothing but a good cause lost in the bigger meaning?

An uplifting song brought us out of church, reminding us of his happiness in life. Was there really no mountain high enough? Was there really no valley low enough? Death is the one mountain and the one valley we are all able to cross over, but unable to turn back from. I did smile upon hearing the song, recalling his deep, dark eyes. Surely they would find me again, surely his sister's pain would be healed, and surely his spirit would return to me. I would see him again. I would remember forever the words I knew I had heeded well: "Remember this. You never know when it will be the last time. Enjoy this."