Sarai Garcia 

English | 4th period  

May 27, 2020 
Change in my atmosphere 
Driving through an empty city gave me chills. Perhaps it was the autumn 
wind that compelled me to go there. I parked a few feet away and tucked my 
hands into my denim jacket. I made my way slowly to the bridge, crunching the 
leaves under my feet. There weren't a lot of cars there, which gave me some time 
to think as I was in the presence of this dark place. Looking below, the blue sea 
was piercing and I thought to myself, ​‘This is the last thing he saw before he fell to 
his death’.​ We would visit here often, and he would always tell me that the sea 
was “something so calming yet petrifying at the same time”. For someone who 
couldn’t swim, I agreed with that statement. It was almost like a foreshadowing, 
maybe if I would have paid closer attention, things wouldn’t be the way they are 
now. His absence can’t be ignored and when my world was closing in, he was 
always there. But now… it feels as though the world closed in on him too, leaving 
us in the dark. 
Too scared to know its contents, I waited until I came home and made a 
beeline to my hideout. With a butterknife, I carefully ripped the letter open first 
(it seemed safer than the package that came with it). Receiving no hints from the 
unknown mailer, I turned the paper over and read. ​This can’t be. No, he wouldn’t. 
It was a goodbye letter from Owen. He told me he was leaving on a trip and didn’t 
know when he'd come back. Now understanding that it was a letter of really 
saying goodbye, I frantically broke apart the package finding nothing more than 
a couple items. I was overwhelmed by the things in there. An oversized sweater 
with its once vibrant shade of red fading due to its usage, a small sketchbook, a 
stuffed elephant, and a CD. I knew what all of these objects meant. Although 
simple, they each represented occasions and milestones in our friendship.  
“Emery open this door” 
“No. Leave me alone” 
“Owen’s mom called me and she-” 
“Mom stop!” 
“I just thought you should know” 
“I already know” 
“Oh, honey how? I’m so sorry” 
“...” 
“Emery come have dinner, we can talk about this” 
“No” 
 “No?” 
“No” 
“Why not?” 
“I’m not hungry” 
“Emery-” 
“LEAVE ME ALONE! … please” 
“...all right” 
I close my eyes. I’m happiest in these moments because when I open my 
eyes, I’m faced with the reality of him no longer being there. I keep wanting to 
live in the past and hope that he’s only a few feet away when the reality is… the 
reality is… too much to bear. Every day I miss him more than the last. I try to 
convince myself that I’m strong, but he was the one that held me together. No 
matter what, he would always support me but now, even I gave up on myself. I 
replay the CD and let the music echo in my lonely hollow heart. My eyes begin to 
tear up as the calendar marks the 12th. My curtains are drawn shut together to 
block out any ray of sunlight. I want my room as dark as my dull eyes that can’t 
see anything hopeful. My depression sits heavy on my shoulders and I sink. 
I see Owen in the treehouse. His brown hair shining like copper under the 
setting sun. His eyes electric green, focusing on the painting at hand. His 
birthmark, the size of a nickel on his neck that I like so much. He sees me staring 
at him.  
He smiles, “What?” He asks out of curiosity. “Is there something on my 
face?” His face turns serious. “Is it a bug? Oh God, is it?! Emmy you know I hate 
bugs! Ahh”  
“Chill out, I was just wondering how you look so cool doing nothing in 
particular”.  
“Yeah right, you probably saw my pear shaped head and think it’s funny” 
he pouts.  
“What?! Of course not! I don’t see a pear… I see more of a squash” I laugh 
loudly.  
“OMG, you didn’t! I fear for my poor poor head.” 
When Owen’s parents asked if I could say a few words at his funeral, I was 
surprised at how early they were already planning the funeral. Scratch that, I 
wasn’t just surprised, I was enraged, shaken to my core. How dare they?! I’m still 
trying to wrap my head around the fact that my best friend, the one who would 
dare me to go out on late night adventures, the one who would tell me my goals 
weren’t silly, the one who finds tiny caterpillars scary and laughs like a maniac 
when the thunder cracks the sky open, my best friend is dead! The pang in my 
heart weighs heavy on my soul as I hold back from expressing my true feelings of 
disgust. I gulp and say “sure”. If anyone is going to say anything concerning the 
life of Owen, I will make sure to do it because I know him better than anyone, 
and I know what he would have wanted to be said.  
I decided to finally open the sketchbook and I was not expecting to see so 
many details as there were on each page. There were a lot of sketches ranging 
from landscapes to eyes, and objects. On a page I see a drawing of Cooper, my dog 
that died almost 8 years ago, and I can’t believe Owen drew him. I always knew 
Owen was observative and I always admired the small intricate pencil strokes he 
made in art class when everyone else would rush through their art. His doodles 
were always admired by our art teacher but it always got him in trouble with the 
other teachers. That was one of the main reasons why I chose to gift him 
sketchbooks every year. Of course they aren’t cheap. I worked my butt off 
earning money to buy him the best art pencils and colors, but I didn’t mind. His 
art was beautiful and I seriously wanted him to pursue that talent.  
Owen is very quiet. He is reserved towards people he doesn’t know and so 
he got picked on a lot. But to the people that know Owen and grew up with him, 
they know that he can be silly at times and is so innocent, you can’t help but 
chuckle at his remarks. I always thought since we were best friends, he wouldn’t 
shut me out of his problems. That we would tell each other everything, and not 
hide detrimental things. Of course, you can know someone but not well enough to 
know their inner conflicts or next moves.  
Looking back, art has been my method of coping with the loss of Owen. I 
expressed my anger, my heartache, my grief, and my denial onto that canvas. In a 
way, I seemed to still feel connected to him. I had permanent paint splatters on 
my floor that I didn’t bother to clean up. I saw it as being artistic and stepping out 
of the boundaries. Every single one of my paintings was dedicated to Owen. I 
never let anyone see them until the funeral date came marching in, once again 
making me relive the hurt of knowing the existence of the most puresome human 
is no longer. I still hadn’t come up with a eulogy to say and quite frankly, I was 
scared. I was going to be vulnerable and can’t hide my emotions very well. I 
feared that whatever I said wouldn’t be good enough for Owen and people 
wouldn’t understand him like I did. What words could describe his sweet soul 
that gave light to my tainted one? 
It’s the 12th. I decide to do something scary. It wasn’t looking at his 
pictures, I already did that. Beyond that, I stripped myself of all fear and took the 
plunge. I took out a large blank canvas and examined it, thinking of how I can 
paint what I had in mind. I decided to paint a portrait of Owen. Knowing that 
words weren’t my strong suit, I chose to paint. I could show them Owen the way I 
saw him and hopefully shed light on who he was to those that didn’t know him 
well. I started shaping his head, then forming his body in a sitting position, the 
way he was usually found in the treehouse whenever he would draw. I wore his 
signature red sweater while I painted it onto his body. The faint smell of him was 
still there and it comforted me, as I tried to make delicate brush strokes the same 
way he would. Because it was a portrait and not exact, I played around with the 
background colors that I felt whenever he emitted laughter, smiles, words, and 
most importantly, life. I added in faint feathery shades of playful red to his brown 
hair and stopped painting at the eyes. The hardest part. Those eyes that bore into 
my soul and could hide no secret from him. I mixed and mixed different shades 
of green, but they weren’t the right color. I began to feel frustrated and took out a 
sheet of paper. I started writing before hopelessness took over and I crumpled 
the paper. I was a mess. I couldn’t focus on any emotion clearly and broke down 
in tears.  
Today’s the day. I decide to drive myself to the funeral home and secured 
my painting onto the back seat. I kept driving, trying to convince myself to go.  
... 
When I finally arrive, I’m escorted to the front row and try to focus on the 
rhythm of my breathing to calm myself down. The room is filled with some 
familiar faces but I can’t force myself to look at them now. I listen to the words 
people say about Owen and think about his life. I grit my teeth. He deserved 
better. I get called up and that forces me out of my thoughts. I rise up on shaky 
knees and uncover the portrait in all its glory. A faint smile makes its way to my 
face as fresh tears stream down my cheeks. It’s Owen, no doubt about that.