Sinead, Age 13, Edmonton, AB

“Why?” I asked myself quietly, while the minister gave his words of wisdom to all of the family and friends who were crying over my now dead father. “It’s all my fault! I should never have run away from him. If I hadn’t, he would never have been run over! I know I’ll never get that horrifying moment out of my head.” I was looking at my father’s coffin, crying hysterically, thinking about that dreadful day two weeks earlier, the day my father told me that mom and him were splitting up.

“You can’t split up! You just can’t! If you do, everything will change! I can’t do it! You can’t make me!” I yelled at my father. Tears swelled in my eyes, like a frozen waterfall starting to flow again. I turned on my heel and ran out the door, across the fields, over the fence and onto the busy highway in front of the fields. I ran across it; the traffic didn’t even slow down. I dodged them like balls bouncing towards me. My father ran after me, dodging cars like wise. A speeding truck came towards him. In a flash, my dad was lying on the ground. His head was bleeding, surrounding him in a pool of blood. “DAD!” I screamed horrified at the sight of his body lying there, not moving or breathing; just lying there motionless. As I ran towards him, the cars passing by stopped. They looked at the scene with tears in their eyes. Tears were streaming down my face…

“Honey. Honey. The funeral’s over sweetie. It’s time to go,” my mom said calmly and sweetly, pulling me out of my reverie, back into the graveyard were there was freshly turned soil, with a coffin underneath it; the coffin with my father in it, white – and dead. I flung myself into my mother’s arms, feeling as though life was about to end, like nothing mattered anymore. I was like a flower dying of thirst, a dog dying of hunger, but I was dying of grief; grief that would never heal.

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