The room was quiet with tiny bursts of sobs. The white chairs were sitting in perfect rows, slowly being filled by the guests. Amy’s face was red with tears filling her eyes. Her tiny body was shriveled in the tall chair. Her short black hair seemed to comfort her face, tucked close to her cheeks. Then there he was, motionless and pale lying in the dressed up box. His red hair seemed to look darker that day. His small gentle hands folded just above his waste. The small biker man was still. No longer would we hear his bike and his ten year old personality. The line grows bigger with cries and tissues being passed back as they walked to see him. I finally got up to the front and turned around my hair hid my face as I cried. I thought to myself I cannot walk any farther. I looked at him; speechless at the disbelief he was really gone. We walked outside and the smell of cigarette smoke filled the outside lobby as everyone stood confused and still. Motorcycles lined the parking lot. There were seventy two bikes that would ride in his name. Friends and family held each other in open arms. I hardly knew people but seemed so close to everyone. Smiling and hugging the ones that grieve even when I did not know who they were. Suddenly the doors fly open and my dad’s shaking arms come out carrying him with six other guys. Dad walked trying to fight back tears. In my sixteen years my dad has always been strong and never showed a sign of emotion. Seeing the man that I looked up to and that never let anything get to him made me cry even harder. They put him in the back of the car and close the doors behind him. Motorcycles lined the front and drove down the street leading him to his resting place. The car seat was warm and my face was wet from the tears. Dad turned on the radio and played Waylon Jennings in honor of him. High cost of livin was played half way down the street before I started to bawl. There were people standing outside of their work places holding their hands high in the air and some held up peace sings as the funeral congregation drove to the grave site. It amazed me how those people did not know him at all but stopped what they were doing to show there sympathy. Standing at the cemetery was the hardest thing I have had to do in a long time. Thinking about the kids he left behind and his wife. He was not just any person he was our best friend. He was the life of the party and the smiles across the world. That day was a very emotional day.
It was a Tuesday afternoon; I had just gotten into the house after school. I heard my sister say “why does my face book say R.I.P. Jason carpenter?” my heart sank and standing in the kitchen with the microwave screaming at me. The floor was cold but my body was hot. Mom then called us to the living room. I sat close to my sister and dad told us Jason was gone. He was going out on his motorcycle one night after work. He had just moved to Cincinnati for a new job and a better opportunity for his family. He hit the guard rail three times, and then had flipped over it. The man and women driving in front of him stopped and went back. Then another man on a bike crashed into Jason’s abandon bike. The only thing that was ruined on his bike was the front wheel. The crash was not that bad but for some reason it had killed Jason. The thought of Jason lying alone helpless on the side of the road had sent so much anger to me. The witness said that he was talking and that he was telling them who he was. I was told they lost him on the way to the hospital. The other guy was only is critical condition. Why did this happen, who could have prevented this and why do people I love leave me behind? Those questions ran through my mind. The greatest thing out of this tragic event is all of Jason’s friends are now becoming a family. We have events in his name and we have cook outs, just like we use to when he was around. (The theme of my story is everything happens for a reason. I have learned to take one day at a time and to love and appreciate what I have. )
© Copyright 2016 sina fisher. All rights reserved.
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