As she stared at the big, black box descending into the earth, Joy felt her heart go with it. Her livelihood, her only joy was inside that big, black box. She felt tears running down her pale face, getting caught up in the curtain of black hair trying to cover her emotions. She threw down a beautiful, red rose that stood out against the ebony wood. It was the last of the flowers to be placed on the box. She could not believe that he was actually gone; that flower had been hard to finally let go. As the casket was lowered down into the ground, it seemed to grasp onto the small stones around the edge of the hole. It was as if it was deciding that those stones would be its companions forever. It was the loneliest thought: to have only stones as company; to be locked in a black box down below the surface of the world; and to be dead, to be missing from the universe. That was where Joy’s heart was: feeling lonely and lost. It would have been understandable, but she was not alone and not exactly lost. Her friends and family surrounded her as they had that fateful spring day, just four days before.


The chaos had started with an innocent knock on her bright, purple door. Her mother went to answer it, but Joy slithered in right before she got there. She knew that knock: it was Carter. He was a six-foot tall, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy. They had been dating for six months, and he was perfect. He would pick her up for school in the morning, text her good night, and take her out to lunch to her favorite Italian restaurant, even when he hated Italian food. Today was no different.

Joy went to the door and asked, in a sing-song voice, “Who is it?”

“Who do you think?” Carter replied, in a voice that mimicked hers. She opened the door and was swept up in a bear hug.

“Good morning,” he murmured into her ear. It sent chills down her spine, and she smiled at the feeling. Joy heard a cough from her mother, and she turned to look at her.



“Hello, Mrs. Hemmings,” Carter said politely. She always insisted that he call her Anna, but he still called her Mrs. Hemmings, and her mom seemed to respect him more for it. “May I take your daughter to school today?”

“Of course, it’s not like you do it every day,” she replied with a sarcastic tone.

“Thank you so much!” he said, giving her a dramatic bow.

“Now shoo! We don’t want you late for school!” her mother said, handing Joy her backpack.

“Thanks, mom! Love you!” Joy said hurriedly as she scurried out the door. She walked down the icy path, grabbing onto Carter’s arm for support. He was sturdy and strong, and nothing seemed to shake him. The pavement seemed extra slippery today, and even with a firm hold on his elbow, she still slipped and slid. Being the gentleman that he was, Carter scooped her up and carried her to his truck. It was a red, 1965 Ford pick-up. He called her “Old Red,” for she was very old and very red: it was an original name. This pick-up had taken them on many adventures, from taking a road trip along the coast to driving all the way to Chicago, Illinois, for her brother’s surgery. When she was placed carefully down on the vinyl seat, Joy had no clue that this was the last adventure Old Red would ever have.

Carter started up the truck and backed out of their short driveway. A tire slipped as it hit a patch of black ice, hidden in plain sight. She shuddered, thinking of all the recent accidents due to the early spring freeze. Her boyfriend squeezed her hand, sending warmth throughout her body. They would not be in one of those. There was a low chance of an accident, and it could not happen to them, so full of life. The drive through town was uneventful. They passed the café on Willow Street, the one with the best bagels; they drove by the movie rental place, with all the classic, wonderful movies; and they went past the big oak tree, where everyone hung out during the summer. They were almost to the school, the last checkpoint being the crossing of the highway. It was usually full of life, but this morning there were only a few cars driving to wherever their destinations were. Old Red shuddered to a halt, letting the vehicles pass in front of her. As soon as the coast was clear, she started up again. She rolled across the intersection, quarter of the way, half of the way, three-quarters of the wa- HONK! There was a huge crashing noise, and Joy was jerked across the seat. She felt a hit on her head, and then, blackness, only blackness.


A thud sounded as the black box hit the bottom of the grave. Her tears kept falling as if she were a well that could never run dry. The first shovel full of dirt hit the top of the casket, covering up the red rose that had been so hard to let go of.
They had said it was the other person’s fault: that they should have had their lights on. They said that he had protected her and that is why she had lived. They said that he had died instantly, not feeling any pain. They said, they said, they said. They thought that would be some kind of comfort to her: That he was in the right; that he had been brave; that he had not suffered. However, they had no clue. They had no clue what it was like to have your heart ripped apart and have the light that was in your life put out. They said she would move on, they said she would stop grieving, they said that it would be alright in the end. They said, they said, they said. But they were wrong.