If you were ever to ask me the difference between school and life, I’d say in school you’re taught a  lesson and given a test, but in life your given a test and taught a lesson. 

 * * * 

I used to never believe in “true love”. I thought it was absolute bull. There was no prince  charming, no happily ever after. I never, ever thought god could ever put that much magic into one  person. 

That was until I met you.  

It was like sweet honey dripping down from my fingertips. Warm, cozy, sweet…whatever you  wanted to call it. It was everything I wanted. It was my secret world only my diary knew about.  That’s when I learnt what loving something or someone really was.  

It’s not a mood. It’s a commitment even when you’re not in the mood for it. It’s lying down in  calf high grass, on a warm summer day, while blowing dandelions as the wind knots your hair and  the breeze carries your wishes away. It’s when you tenderly look at them and it feels as though all  your insides turn into warm, liquid, caramel. It’s when their bourbon, woody smell intoxicates you  and the gentle whisper of their name can either light you up or leave you aching for days. 

There you were right in front of me. I witnessed pure magic.  

I breakdown for a lot of reasons. I fall desperately to my knees for a lot of reasons, but this is the  first time I fell down to my knees hypnotized, because I witnessed a boy who was able to bring  the sun down to his knees every single evening as stardust danced into the sky. I witnessed  magic. 

 * * * 

I forgot magic shows don’t last forever. 

 * * * 

He had a dream to always do good by people. He enlisted in the army. We didn’t have much at  the time. Most nights we just ordered pizza, sat on the floor and ate it, laughing.  

He was a hard worker. Selfless. The universe crafted him carefully—with so much stardust— because here he was crafting the pain the world threw at him into liquid, golden honey.  

He left me here with everything and went to Iran in search for more rocks to turn to honey.   * * * 

Two years ago he gave me a ring and a child. 

Two days ago the army gave me a flag.  

 * * * 

I couldn’t cry.I dint want to cry, because if I did, it would confirm it really did happen. It would  confirm all the magic was really gone.  

But could you blame me when tears start to well in my eyes? When the captain mentions his  name at each memorial it feels as if someone slid ice down my back. When a government official  realizes I have the same last name as one of their best soldiers and they ask me, “We’re you 

related to him? Do you know him?” And a thousand memories flash through my head and all I  could do is answer smiling with a lump in my throat “I used to.”. When my four year old daughter  comes home every fathers day with a macaroni necklace in her and crayon drawing in her hand  asking me, “Mommy, who do I give this to?’. Can you blame me? 

They say after someone passes, you should keep all your windows open, so you can let their final,  wheezing breath out, so their soul can be set free. But why is it when I close my eyes all I see is  your face, you screaming, with your fists banging against the window glass begging me to show  you the way out? 

For an entire year, I woke up screaming. Grief clung onto me like an old, itchy, clingy, hand me  down dress. Each breath kept getting harder and harder. The worst part of it all, I wasn’t being the  mother my daughter needed. She comforted me although it should have been the other way  around. Forgive me if I failed you. 

 * * * 

March 21st, 2018 

The first day of spring, but more importantly our daughter’s 6th birthday. We’re doing better now.  We still grieve you every single day, every single second. 

We still stand outside on the porch every year to look at the grass growing back and the flowers  blossom for her birthday. Every single year she squeezes my hand and asks me “He’s not coming  back, is he?” the multicolored party hat on her head slipping down. Every single year I squeeze  her hand back, and without another word we walk back into the house to join the others “partying  their butts off” as you would say. *Sigh* We’ll never forget you. We love you.  

If you’re watching us. If you can hear me. I just want you to know you were not meant to be a jar  of ashes on my bedside table. 

We were meant to grow old together.  

 * * * 

Life, I’m sorry if I didn’t pass your test. I don’t understand the lesson.

By Chathma Punchihewa