Talk About It.

Where Things Began

 2013; I was in 4th grade.

   I was on cloud nine. Of course I was. Almost every 10-or-whatever year old with the privileges I had is. My life was seemingly spotless. I was untarnished by the complications of this life. I had quite a few friends, and they were remarkable. They'd been with me since first grade, and we were indeed close. I guess, you could say, I was in the more "popular" group, but how popular can you really be when your in 4th grade?

 My school was divided by generation. The people you moved onto the next grade with. 4th graders never talked to 5th graders, 5th graders never talked to 6th graders. You see, the generation I fell into was so dramatic. Theatre kids on steroids. We were like the cast of Grease. We had your tiny wannabe jocks, your pink ladies, your nerds, your prudes, your outcasts who sat under the slide eating grass. I unfortunately found myself a pink lady. We only talked to the prepubescent baseball players. We thought we were so cool. (We weren't.) Teacher's loved us. We had spotless grades and perfect baby-tooth smiles. Anything we said went. Adults and children alike listened to every word we said and obeyed without hesitation. Life was like a hazy film, sweet and sleepy. I had no worries.

  The summer before 5th grade brought unexpected hardship. My uncle, Dwaine, died. Yes- I know it doesn't sound like something that would bother someone my age. And if it had been any other uncle it probably wouldn't have. However, I was really, really close to him. Him and I shared stories, (awful) puns and ideas about the world. I found that he was closer than all my friends at school. He was my best friend. When he died, I was heartbroken. I didn't want to go to the funeral. I didn't want to see him buried.

This was my first taste of something terrible, something that would not leave me for years.

Upon returning to school in August, I discovered even more misfortune.