“At this time, we would like to take a moment of silence.” 

I felt the air leave my lungs as I heard those words. It reminded me of how I felt in third grade when I fell off the monkey bars; hitting the ground with all my body weight leaving me unable to call for help, only able to wheeze. Eventually, I had to get up by myself. That feeling is how I would describe grief. The sudden pain of trying to figure out how to breathe again without sharing the same oxygen as someone. The inability to get help, not because you don’t want it, but because you don’t how. 

When my friend died, I didn’t know how to ask for help. How could anyone even help me with the loss of someone? I knew people tried helping by saying “I’m sorry” and with their random hugs, but the most helpful thing anyone did was cry with me. It was our freshman year, and I was at the lunch table where my friends from eighth grade sat. It was just me and one other friend at the table. We were sitting and just cried together. I knew I wasn’t grieving my friend alone, but seeing that I wasn’t alone with the hole in my heart was all I needed. I needed to know that his death wasn’t just someone saying it was “God’s plan and that it will be okay,” and that my friend’s death wasn’t just a post for someone to put on their story. 

Buck’s life was so much more than a post. I never have and never will meet someone like him. Yes, everyone is different and no one is the same, but he truly was someone you meet once in a lifetime. I’ve always found things I can see in multiple people, like when someone I work with walks the same way my teacher does. But Buck truly was an original person: I don’t see him in anyone else. I can only remember who he was. I remember his laugh and all of his twisted jokes. I can still feel how it felt when he chose to smile at me. I still feel the warmth he brought with his genuine matter.

That’s why it was and still is so hard to lose him. One of my favorite quotes about grief would be “Grief is a ball in a room, and some days the ball takes up the whole room, but on other days it feels smaller,” by Lauren Herschel. I often feel the room size changing. The days the ball feels smaller is when I try to keep Buck alive in who I am. On the last day of freshman year, I wore the boots that he complimented me on to try and tell myself he made it. I have also learned that stealing his humor has helped me grieve him in a healthy way. Ever since he died, I have learned how to smile without feeling ashamed. When he made jokes, he did it to make people laugh, but also so that he could laugh. I now find myself laughing at things I do and think of him. Even though grief is different for everyone and will be hard no matter what, keeping that person alive through you is the best thing you can do in my opinion. Healing takes time, and even if it still hurts, it doesn’t mean you are not healed. It means you’re learning how to not focus on that pain.

That is why I’m writing this article. I need to let go of some of that pain and this is the best way I know how. When he died, this newspaper wrote about him. I was too late in replying to the writers when they were wondering what to put. What they did was amazing, but it’s hard to honor someone so incredible while only using words. I wish I had replied in time, but I didn’t. So now the guilt of knowing so much more could have been said about him can finally go away.