“Jacob?” a quite, petite voice said. The white light was streaming in through my eyelids. My eyes opened, to see the bluest sky I had ever seen. Clouds floated in the air so beautifully, almost as if they were dancers on stage. As oxygen flooded into my lungs, I instantly felt rejuvenated and healed in places I didn’t even know was broken. I was laying in a field of grass, completely content with where I was. The grass was soft, almost as soft as a pillow. I was on a slight hill, with shade coming down over me by a neighboring flowering cherry tree. The tree was covered in beautiful pink flowers. “Jacob, can you hear me?” the petite voice said again. I sat up, looking towards the voice. It was Jessa. “Jessa?” I said in a shocked tone. How
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“Have a great life Jacob, see you later.” “See you later,” I said as I watched her walk towards the gates of heaven. She walked with no fear, instead with confidence and innocence. As she walked toward the light, I was engulfed with memories of her. When I was three and I first held her, so small and in a pink blanket. Then I was dancing with her, spinning in circles in the living room. Then I saw the first day we went to school together, holding her hand as we both climbed on the bus. The next memory was ice skating, bike riding, picnics with mom and dad, going to the movies: and then it was the day when she got diagnosed with cancer — when she was eleven and I was fourteen. Flashbacks then went to the hospital, seeing her suffer and cry through endless treatments, but yet remain so strong. Then she was thirteen and I was sixteen, our first drive together and alone. She was jamming to the radio while I tried my best to focus on the road. She was in remission at this moment, so happy to finally be free of the cancer. Next, I saw us at a retreat for cancer kids and siblings, when she began to get sick again and I rode with her to the hospital. Cancer was back, and this was just last year. Now I’m sitting in the room with the doctor, telling us there is nothing else they can do; telling us that we need to take her home. I didn’t want to believe it then, but now as I watched her walk away, I believed
“Have a great life Jacob, see you later.” “See you later,” I said as I watched her walk towards the gates of heaven. She walked with no fear, instead with confidence and innocence. As she walked toward the light, I was engulfed with memories of her. When I was three and I first held her, so small and in a pink blanket. Then I was dancing with her, spinning in circles in the living room. Then I saw the first day we went to school together, holding her hand as we both climbed on the bus. The next memory was ice skating, bike riding, picnics with mom and dad, going to the movies: and then it was the day when she got diagnosed with cancer — when she was eleven and I was fourteen. Flashbacks then went to the hospital, seeing her suffer and cry through endless treatments, but yet remain so strong. Then she was thirteen and I was sixteen, our first drive together and alone. She was jamming to the radio while I tried my best to focus on the road. She was in remission at this moment, so happy to finally be free of the cancer. Next, I saw us at a retreat for cancer kids and siblings, when she began to get sick again and I rode with her to the hospital. Cancer was back, and this was just last year. Now I’m sitting in the room with the doctor, telling us there is nothing else they can do; telling us that we need to take her home. I didn’t want to believe it then, but now as I watched her walk away, I believed