www.whyville.net Jun 28, 2009 Weekly Issue

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No More, No Longer

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Author's Note: In memory of Whyvillian 2wario2.

The heavy lock would thrust down, then barely ascend every so often, each time confessing such beautiful eyes like yours exist. Always, this was followed by a quick concealing, sheltering their beauty. With the pass of your every blink, those dirty emerald pearls would absorb more and more of the surrounding world.

Now, no longer do you blink, do you breathe, do you live. How could that be? My baby, no longer.

They were breathtaking, your eyes. Yet they were covered in a single, unpleasant substance. All your life, I just watched, feeling pathetically useless, as it attempted to conquer you. But I thought you could pull through this second time, just as you did the first. I never doubted your unshakable strength, at the same time I was mistaken for underestimating that beast's power. My love, how much pain pounded on your perfection.

The pain was evident in your face. Like a pale white surface bruised with a deep red stain, it was clear to see. Somehow, you must've, along with that chemo, swallowed down all your fears. How else could hope remain in your eyes? For every time they unlocked from sleep, it seemed as if the clingy hands of unmercy would slowly snatch them away. Their innocence would then be hung, forced to see needles, tears and bittersweetness all day, everyday, for many months. Until one day, God must've had enough with this silly game.

He truly did have enough. Never will my heart let go that moment God forever promised them to see no more pain, no more evil. For there was nothing left to show, but a home of perfection, greater and more vast than any imagination. So, God, cradling your head in His loving hands, bent down and pressed his lips adjacent your eyelids, casting upon them a spell of permanent peace.

Mario, now, after seven months without you, enough courage has crept into me to accept that you're gone, and that this fact will last forever. No longer am I an older sister. No more of your sweet voice sharing annoying jokes. It'll no longer be the same, but no more of me putting God up for blame.

In your 9 years of life, you showed me incredible, indescribable things. A true role model in my eyes, you taught me that sometimes, you just don't know. To not know what's going to happen to you by tommorrow, why everything is happening the way it is, is okay. As long as you're focused on living today the fullest, planting the rest in God's hands is the best way. I've learned through one child that nothing should stop you from living a happy, loving life, not even imperfections such as brain cancer. I'm proud to call such a unique child my role model, my little brother, my angel. Thank you, Mario, for your light.

Even if you manage to pick yourself up once, there'll always be a chance you will fall again; that's when you don't trust God. With God, you can always be sure that at the end of every dusty fall, he'll be there to puck you up into his arms once more.


Author's Note: Mario passed away on November 15, 2008, due to a brain tumor he was diagnosed with at the age of four. He was only 9 when he died, and this is the first time I've had the courage to write to the Times about his death, so this piece really does mean a lot to me.


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