Sometimes the first time is the worst time

     In January of 2006, I was a sophomore at Ralston Valley High School. In my Math class, I met a person named Austin Freeman Ayers, he was the most intriguing boy I’d ever seen. He was tall, dark, skinny, and extremely engaging.  At the time he had a girlfriend but there was a rumor going around that she had back hair, so I figured it wouldn’t last. When that fiasco was over, I slinked in and gave him my number. That night he called and I knew he was hooked. We immediately started dating and would talk on the phone at night, and occasionally meet at the park. I’ve never been excited to go to math class, but the thought that I could sit next to him and take notes was heavenly. Austin was brilliant, but he didn’t have a lot of common sense and through a series of unfortunate events he was expelled; we broke off our relationship shortly after, put kept a strained friendship, considering we still had a certain tenderness for one another. He called me every night no matter what at 10pm.

            On October 4th, he didn’t call. I knew something was wrong but I didn’t want to pester him. In the morning I received devastating news. I didn’t believe what they had said and I called a mutual friend to confirm. Afterwards, I proceeded to cry on the shower floor for close to an hour. The act of sobbing seemed overwhelming to me, but liberating at the same time. I struggled between breaths as the cinderblock on my sternum began to break apart. As soon as my legs could withstand any heaviness I crawled out and went to school with wet hair. I needed to know if it was true; I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. The only thing I found at school was more details and more crying. He was inebriated and riding his favorite long board next to a man in a suburban holding on to the window but eventually had to let go. I heard everything from “he just cracked his head” to “he got sucked under”. Somewhere in there was the truth but that morning I couldn’t find it. I felt as if Death was following everyone who knew him. I couldn’t stand class; I needed rest. I made the drive home and slept for hours and woke up feeling like I needed something substantial to hold on to. Then, like a wave it came rushing forth into my mind; the glass heart.

            In a memory long past, Austin went to Flagstaff, Arizona for spring break and brought me back a glass heart he had a man make for me. It fit perfectly in my palm and is still one of the most beautiful things I own. I destroyed my bed room searching for it and when I found it I felt this weight lifting and inner peace. For the next six months that heart was always in my purse or I was carrying it. At his funeral I clung to that little piece of glass as if I were to let go I’d fall off a cliff into a river. I told Austin I would never lose it, I promised him.

 
            In May of 2009, I decided that I would bravely go where I had never dared a second glance into; a tattoo parlor. Inside was a striking tattooed woman named Jeanie and I asked for her opinion of my idea. She said it sounded right up her alley and would love to work with me. I sat down with her and together, we drew up a picture of what I wanted for Austin. The heart was my crowning jewel, the centerpiece of my project. Around it was stargazer lilies. I chose this particular flower because whenever he and I would spend time together he was always staring at the sky. Written on their petals was “Alis volat propriis”, a Latin saying which translates to “she flies with her own wings”, which signifies my independence as a person and my love for language. Pretty, feminine details were added for flair and Jeanie set a date. I was so nervous I almost didn’t go. I knew it would be painful, but I really had no idea either way. I knew Austin would love it, so backing out was never an option.

          On June 2, 2009 I let someone puncture my skin with tiny little needles for four hours and felt rejuvenated after. The physical pain matched my emotional pain, and with healing physically, also I let go psychologically. I received grievance from my family for altering my body in that way, but as I explained to them the touching importance it had over me, they came to love it as much as I did. Austin would have been astounded by the help it made. Time does not heal wounds, you must bandage a wound, apply ointment, and treat it carefully so as not to cause infection or nasty scarring. That is how the heart mends as well. I took care of my heart and eventually it made a full recovery.

              The keepsake delicately etched in my skin is to remind me to be a great friend and to take advantage of a human beings precious time. This is not a sad story; it is one with the lesson of serenity to accept the things that one cannot control, and care for your heart as you would a scrape on your knee. As Jeanie so eloquently put it, “Your body is a temple, and the highest level of respect is adornment”. I respect my body, I respect the sanctity of life, and I respect the value of a promise to a loved one.