The Idea of an Essay, Volume 3

58 The Idea of an Essay: Volume 3 Now I don’t really write anymore. Every time I think about writing, I think about elementary school, of Mr. Peters encouraging me to write, of the person I was then, but mostly of Shianne and the part I think I played in making her life worse. It’s not even that which fills me with the most sadness, but it’s that I failed to make her life better. I had the opportunity to love her as Christ loved me, but I didn’t. I could have made a difference in her life by loving her, which is something I think she needed desperately, but instead, I made her life darker. That sour taste from all my guilt–ridden memories is always with me when I write. When we left elementary school, I didn’t see Shianne again until high school three years later. It took less time than that for me to realize what a horrible friend I had been to her. In high school, she hung out with a girl named Shayla, and they could both be seen smoking together with the best of them many times daily in the designated smoking area at the end of the school driveway. There were nasty rumors about Shianne and how she behaved at parties. She dropped out of high school before tenth grade. Last thing I heard was that she was living alone. That was in eleventh grade. Her mom had committed suicide and her grandmother who she had been living with died. Once in fourth grade, I called Shianne and it was her Mom who picked up the phone. Her “hello?” sounded irritated and pale. Shianne’s dad never was in the picture. Many times I’ve wondered how she’s doing, or if now, after all the things I did and she did, I could help her again. I wonder if she’s even alive, or if she too took her own life. Many times, I’ve thought about writing her a letter to tell her how sorry I am for everything I did to hurt her. The letter I thought of writing would tell her that I was sorry for the terrible friend I had been. I would tell her all the things I wish I could take back and that I see now and understand how I must have hurt her. I would tell her that there’s still hope for her despite what she may be thinking. But, just like those memories have left a bitter taste sitting in my mouth when I write, that letter has been sitting stagnant in my head. It has never seen the light of day.