In a soft breeze under tall, shadowy trees, there sits a weathered, peeling wooden picnic table at the heart of my school’s campus, fondly known as “Crossroads.” He left behind his green water bottle, so I spent my free block emptily staring at it whilst sobbing, anxiously waiting for him to come back after being questioned by the deans. 

Was he going to be okay? Did he get suspended? Was it all my fault? 

Last fall break, I spent a week in Jonah’s house. Wind in my hair, staring at the sunset, going on spontaneous adventures to museums and parks, I had never felt so alive. I sat at the edge of a mountain looking down at the city with him and my friends. There, my heart rested easy as I believed I had found the most valuable friendships I would continue treasuring for the rest of high school. 

Everything changed in a week. 

As I sat on the soft couch in the Dean’s office, two teachers loomed over me with notepads in their hands. Their rapid-fire questions made me sweat profusely. Flashbacks of Jonah and some of my friends’ occasional substance abuse started playing in my head, but I had never imagined I would be called in as a witness. 

If only I was never there. If only I never had to feel the weight of all my friends on my shoulders. Yet there was nothing I could change in the moment. My friends were frightened about their future, each trying to justify and defend themselves. I was being pulled left and right and was requested to lie for my friends.

With tears streaming down my eyes, and my face tightly buried in my hands, I reluctantly told the truth. 

From then on, heartfelt conversations and bursts of laughter were replaced with pretending I didn’t notice them when walking by their lunch table. 

Jonah was suspended. 

A silent anger overtook me. I was frustrated that his actions embroiled me in such a difficult, impossible situation which I didn’t even partake in, and I decided it was easier to distance myself. I drifted away from Jonah, trying to convince myself that I was doing okay and living my best life without him.

In the months that followed, I repeated to myself over and over again. “I made the best judgment. I did what was best for me.” This statement came back to haunt me. 

The fall breeze faded, and so did my memory of him, as I thought. As the winter passed and spring unfolded, I found myself at the Crossroads again. This time the weathered, peeling wooden table was decorated with vibrant fresh flowers and lit candles; it had become an Ofrenda to honor his life. Jonah had passed away in an accident. 

My memory, anger, and guilt rushed back to me.

Is he going to come back? Why did this happen? Was it all my fault?

There I sat on that table, crying, wishing every blooming flower and thoughtful note was replaced by his old, dented, green water bottle. I would’ve traded anything to be brought back into one of the toughest moments of my life, just to talk and share what remained unsaid. 

How do I face that my grief wasn’t picture perfect? It wasn’t like the movies, I didn’t get flashback reels with sappy music riding in his car or hanging out after school. I didn’t have a vision of a comforting shadow of him watching over me. I used to see grief as one of the most pure and direct forms of sadness. 

Yet, my grief was different. 

It was overtaken by staring at the walls of my bedroom every night, tirelessly rethinking the decisions I made instead of fully grieving the loss of him. If only I knew the way this would end. If only I had gathered enough empathy to fully forgive and put the past behind me. How different – how much better would things be now?

While others were recalling their stories and gratefulness for friendship, I remembered blaming him for losing my friends, distracting me from my schoolwork, and the countless hours spent worrying about everything, big or small. 

“Sorry for making things so convoluted and stressful after,” I read the gray text bubble on my phone over and over again. The last text I ever received from him was an apology that I had too much pride to accept. And now things were so different, so out of reach. 

I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke to him, the last time he hugged me, or even the last time I saw him smile. I couldn’t remember conversations I knew were meaningful, or memories I knew were special. But - death leaves no space for apologies and takebacks, no last chance to explain yourself. I was left to my own devices – to cope, to love, to find my own way to come to terms with the only truly permanent thing in life. I couldn’t remember the beautiful moments because I was so busy picking apart everything I (or he) might have done wrong. 

I had lost so much time because I couldn’t find it in myself to forgive. 

The following months unfolded as an emotional roller coaster for me. I would easily get anxious when getting into minor conflicts with friends, out of fear that they were going to end up the same way as me and Jonah. “What if they died too? Is it going to end this way again?” I found myself in a constant state of apprehension, forcing myself to live in the context of the same situation in my head over and over again.

I sat at the crossroads table again. The sun burned on my back as I stared and stared into the flowers and photos of him. Sitting around the Ofrenda, my friends were laughing and smiling, sharing their favorite memories of him. The solemn, crisp spring air was filled with laughter, the laughter of acceptance and love. 

I held supermarket flowers in my hand and dropped them off at the Ofrenda. I exhaled and gently cracked a smile. 

I remembered watching his favorite movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off under heavy, cozy blankets, laughing about how we wished the characters were us. I remembered how free and exhilarating it felt to climb onto the roof of his car, looking at the sunset below.

I have spent countless days or even weeks rethinking everything that happened. The good, the beautiful, the bad, and the ugly. Grief is oftentimes unresolved. This is not acknowledged enough, and it takes time, but I have learned that it is okay. 

When you cannot find closure, the only choice is to love. 

To show and express gratitude even through conflict, confusion, and ambiguity, is my way of honoring him and leaving on a good note. 

When his favorite songs from The Smiths come up on the radio, I try to think about how excited he would get about music. When I look back on photos of us hanging out and going on adventures, taken naively before I knew all the chaos that was going to come, I try to think about how happy he made me in those moments, how grateful I am that they could be captured in a photo. 

Now when I sit at the crossroads table, I choose to think back to that moment his gray Converse nervously walked back from the dean’s office after finding out he was suspended. He saw me crying, walked toward me, hugged me, and asked “Are you okay?”

During one of the most uncertain and scary moments of his life, he had the heart and generosity to hug me and reassure me that nothing was my fault. 

That, is the Jonah I know, that I love, and am eternally grateful for. If only I could tell him.