When Kelly died her bed was the place we all flocked to. Eight people on that tiny twin bed. Stickers adorned the headboard, and Dali graced the wall above. There was only one pillow, no box spring, just the frame and the mattress that held up those grieving. Her scent still lingered on those sheets, waiting to return back to her that night. Metallica's "nothing else matters" played endlessly to drown out the sobs. Eight people on that tiny twin bed. We were stuck there, afraid that if we moved she would drift farther away. The cries ceased for brief moments of happy memories, only to return louder than before.


...this life is ours we live it our way...



Day drifted into night and the eight of us slept, crying on that bed. Our life raft no longer held the weight of our saddness and anger.



...so close no matter how far...



"EVERYBODY OUT!", Dad yelled, "DON'T TAKE HER FROM ME! OUT! You-stay, You too. EVERYONE ELSE-OUT!"



...couldn't be much more from the heart...



And then there were three. No words except the language of the guitars, that haunting sound. There were no more tears left in us to cry. "I want to keep her-her all to myself-but those out there-they need this stuff to hold on to her. I have 20 years of memories, I don't need any of this. You two need to take care of this." And with that Dad left us to dispense Kelly's belongings. "I can't do this." "Me neither, but you heard him..." So began the excavation.



...I never opened myself this way...



The Dali book and "Swans Reflecting Elephants" print were the first to go. Pottery was next. Make-up, shoes, shirts, books, movies, CDs, those stickers from her headboard-gone. Her rosaries never moved, neither did the rings on her dresser. They waited patiently for her to come home and put them in her hands one last time.



...trust I seek and I find in you...



Lotion, perfume, hairspray-anything they got ahold of-they took. At the end of the night she had left. No stickers remained on the headboard, no Dali adorned the wall. I slept there alone that night, clutching the only thing I could save. That twin bed seemed so big now, me, Kelly's jeans, Metallica, and my tears.



...forever trust in who we are...



Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Life went on, but we all gravitated to that bed whenever we were together. The eight of us sat on that tiny twin bed which had saved us that year ago, hanging onto our artifacts of Kelly- pottery, Dali, chap stick, glitter, a shoe, chopsticks, jeans, and Metallica.



The sheets may be different, the wall may be bare, her scent no longer waits for her to return. She lives here still, but she's never coming home.



...and nothing else matters...