**Writings is a series of posts, as we close out 2017, featuring work by the teen writers participating in our Teen Day program. **

The Night

The blue of the sky and the hills through the fog drew my eyes past the crowded room, past the frame, and out the window into the evening light. The dark shapes of trees frozen in a desperate struggle blocked a clear view to the hill across the valley. Tiny lights twinkled there, the only sign of life through the fog. The top of the hill was distinguishable only by the change in color from it to the lighter sky.

Between me and the distant hills was an army of trees, their rain drenched leaves flopped limply from their branches giving the forest a sad, dreary look. A few dead trees scrambled at the others reaching for their life and young joy. But they, like the others, were frozen in a silent dance, unmoving until the wind came to playfully shove at them. When the trees held strong the wind would give a final exasperated push and move on.

—Emily Warner

**Writings is a series of posts, as we close out 2017, featuring work by the teen writers participating in our Teen Day program. **

A Tree Falls

[All names have been changed]

I get out of our recently parked car and tug at my black silk dress with the crimson sweet peas and flounced hem. I look around at the grasslands surrounding us, other cars parked along the already narrow driveway and more coming in by the minute, including a familiar silver van. A smile twitches my lips as I walk over. ‘‘Hey, Laura,’’ I say as she comes towards us in a black square-holed lace dress and her light brown-blond hair in two little buns, her siblings in front and parents trailing behind. Amy sees my sister Rosie, runs over, and they both disappear down the driveway to torment Jack, who doesn’t look like he thought about what to wear at all, and Sam, who at least put on a button-down shirt. Good.

More people are congregating now, and I see Bill, with sweatpants, a sweater, and a red, swollen nose and eyes, greeting everybody. He walks over, and says with a sad smile, ‘‘Thanks for coming.’’ Mama and Papa start talking, so Laura and I wander around the myriad of somber people in muck boots until we meet Jack, Sam, Mallory, Andy, and Nathan, who isn’t quite his cheerful self. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t be cheerful either. We talk and laugh a little, trying to take our minds off the sad occasion that brought us all here.

‘‘Coming through! Move to the sides, please!’’ A elderly woman gestures us over as a forest-green golf cart rattles over the rough stones of the driveway. It has an armful’s worth of greenery in the back, bouncing up and down as the cart disappears between the two long rows of people. After it passes, we all move to the middle of the road again. After this, there is a dearth of action. The people coming gradually thin out, but the talk continues.

‘‘Nathan, we’re ready for you.’’ We turn, and see his older brother Jim standing there. Nathan nods. Jim continues, ‘‘It’s time for you to, you know, show your strength,’’ vaguely pumping his biceps in the air and gesturing towards another green golf cart off to the side of the driveway in the grass. It carries on the back a pale, lemon colored coffin.

Talk ceases.

We all gather in a group, Nathan, Jim, Bill, and a few others gently lift it by means of straps tied to a railing, and the five death-bearers slowly go down the sloping, grassy path. As we walk behind them, several people bend down to pick little bouquets of wildflowers. Others hold stereotypical funerary flowers that they clutch  like the hair of a drowning man.

Laura and I walk together silently behind the swells of people, and silently take our places in the circle that has formed around the coffin, set on planks over a shallow grave. Someone has stood up a framed photograph on each end, which I can’t see from my angle of view. There is also a wreath in the center. The pall-bearers retreat into the crowd, and a silence falls upon everything. In the distant woods, a single bird gives a sweet, liquid trill.

Finally, Bill clears his throat and steps forward.  ‘‘I just want to thank everyone that came here today to celebrate Sandra’s life. She was my love and soul for many years…’’ He continues, but I don’t comprehend most of what he says, being wrapped in a thick blanket of sadness and confusion, struggling with my own thoughts. Sandra was a wonderful person, always smiling, always with a kind word. Why, then, did cancer have to take her away from her two boys, her husband, her family and friends? She held on to life so long, I hoped that maybe, just maybe, she would win the struggle. But now, we all are looking at her coffin, in a natural burial cemetery…

Bill’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “I would like to read the wedding vows I wrote for Sandra.” He begins, and the words we hear are full of love. Pain and grief are in his voice, choking him. As I look around through a mist of tears, I see that I’m not the only one touched. Many others are weeping. As he finishes, we are all emotional wrecks, and I see Nathan looking like he wants to cry, but has forgotten how.

When Bill asks if anyone has a memory of Sandra that they would like to share, there is a little pause before someone steps I. They reminiscence about their friendship per usual, but something that they say really strikes me. “…You know, if Sandra were here right now, she would look around and say, ‘All these people! Here? For me?!’’’

A dark-haired, younger woman with a red ribbon woven into her braid tells about when Sandra dressed up for Halloween as a rock star and they didn’t recognize her, eliciting from us a few chuckles. Others talk about how she did her very best to hold on until her boys were grown, about the time when she told a friend, “If I die, I want you to make sure that Nathan learns math…” Jim tells about the time when he squished a ladybug, and she grounded him for a day. So many memories flood in, so many examples of Sandra’s wonder and love. I am amazed by all the people that she touched and befriended.

A hush falls. A tree falls with it in the surrounding woods, breaking the spell. We all jump a little, and laugh.  Someone says that we should sing. One mentions that one of Sandra’s favorite songs was ‘What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor.’ Another suggests ‘I’ll Fly Away.’ The latter is quickly agreed upon, and we all let our voices swell together in harmony.

After we finish, we crowd around the casket, placing our bouquets of flowers on it, looking at and talking about the photographs. The coffin is lowered into the grave. I say goodbye to Laura, whisper a final farewell to Sandra. Numbly, we walk up the winding, grassy path to the road, leaving Sandra behind forever.

—Romneya Quennell