I decided to write about this book, because firstly I LOVE Jodi Picoult. And seconly, because this story is absolutely so moving and wonderful.
The ideas in this are very similar to that of many other people's I would imagine. But that is because it is the same book, and we do know how they all feel.I did not create this story, I only wrote just a bit about after Willow's death. This was for only having fun, and experimenting with different styles.
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Is it too cliche for me to say that I never knew missing someone you love dearly would hurt this badly. This throbbing and aching pain, bottled up within me. Tearing my heart into fragments. But this hurt, is what has become of our lives now, without you. When you left, everything fell apart, like it once had because of you. That's the beauty in this irony. Yet there is no doubt, that you were the only reason our family was together.
After your death, Mom went into denial. She would swear that she had seen you today, that you were a part of everything she does. You were the sparkling stars, the crisp twilight air, the glistening moonlight, and the fresh morning dew. The rain drops that slashed at the window pane. You were everything and everywhere. Yet, Dad on the other hand, just fell deep into his work. There is nothing more I can say about him. It's almost as if I don't know him anymore.
Although, we never talked about you in conversations, you still lingered between us. It was a pure fact, we could not detach from you, Willow. We want to keep you as close as we can, yet we knew that moving on was all we could do now.
I turned to painting again for comfort of your loss. But what good did it do? It never made things any better, as a matter of fact, it was only worse. I felt rage build up in me every time I was painting. This anger of how unfair it was to lose you. It was an unjust deal, it should have not turned out like this. And I would give everything to go back in time and change it. I only ripped up so many painting, before I decided that I might as well stop painting. There is no point, it does not help at all either.
I bet you wouldn't know, that at your funeral we played the song Angel. Because you were an angel, a one that was almost always broken, unfortunately. They say, that every wound heals with time. But that was never true, each would may fade away, it may attempt to heal. But the scar will always be there, and every time I look at your photos. These raw scars are cut fresh open again, making the wound only deeper. But I will not complain, because the only way to keep you, is to remember you. And remembering you, is the pain I gain comfort from.