Domenick F.

Photography by Cat White

If you’re reading this, maintain a relationship with your grief.

Mason Hackworth was 16 years old when he died. I was 16, too, when I got the phone call from his mother. While I’ll be graduating from UVA in five months, he’ll never walk across that stage.

Two weeks before Mason passed, we had a sleepover at his house. He showed me his prized “Asia” album, of which I found in my own parents’ collection. I now prize that record more than myself.

I continued to guilt myself over the unprocessed trauma, which led to me severing my relationship with Mason. I thought that if I worked hard enough to move away from my hometown, that I could escape the confines of this inescapable grief.

This year, I felt like I should move on from my memories of him. I felt like I was independent enough, mature enough, and smart enough to evade those emotions.

When a friend of mine lost her childhood friend during college, I stepped up to the plate to help. I pictured his face again. That made me weep. Truly weep. The tears came pouring back. I thought I couldn’t cry about this anymore? I saw a beautiful image of Mason’s face. He was searching through his extensive collection of vinyl records — he embodied every meaning of an “old soul,” that was possible, even at 16 years old — and looked over his shoulder as he was scanning the cabinet. I can still see the corners of his eyes. His full cheeks. I can barely hear his laughter, and although the guilt of forgetfulness jolts through my body as I recall the last five years without him, I can still feel his joy guide me forward. This image is what I choose to remember him by: his exuberant, playful, imaginative self.

I once longed for the day I could overcome these tears. I have learned that day will never come, and for that I am forever grateful. I will always be changed by Mason’s death. He has taught me, and continues to teach me, the unimaginable about life. I have learned that we must decide to wake up tomorrow, as simple as that sounds. We must dive deep into the painful valleys and smile as we careen over the peaks of joyous hills. We simply must live.

My own sister, Natalie, teaches me those lessons. She has endured the unconscionable, yet is fueled by it all. They are seemingly insignificant parts of ourselves, but are realistically our entire beings. They are the reason we need to live. We must tell their stories, fulfill their legacies, and share with others why they need to live on, too.

Mason’s death taught me to let my heart love. I embrace my foolishness when asking basic questions, my embarrassing and piercing laughter at the worst jokes, my unabashed dramatic flair during small talk: they are proof that I am alive. My existence is a testament that I have lived. The wrinkles on my forehead are proof of the many tears I have shed. The days I have left are going to be beautiful. My life, even when it ends, will be beautiful.

I say “I love you” now. Almost every time I say goodbye to someone, even the ones I barely know, the ones I just met that morning. I text my friends at 2 a.m. to tell them thank you. Thank you for the light in your eyes. Your laughter. I tell people to take their time now. To push off deadlines, to skip class, to rest up. “We are on a floating rock,” I tell them, “call someone you love.” I cry on my birthdays now. Not because I am in pain, but because I can feel his arms pushing me forward. Telling me to keep moving forward, to keep living. I will always cry on my birthday, and for that I am grateful.

A relationship with grief is like a well of tears. A dam holding back endless water, ready to flow through your sinuses and out your tear ducts at any moment you attempt to imagine their pain. I have learned to titrate this ocean, but to never sever it, allowing it to pass through in the beautiful insignificant moments of life. The milestones I pass, knowing Mason is in my ear telling me, “keep going.” The moments I tilt my head back in a fit of laughter and think, “how are you doing up there?”

These are lessons I learned amidst the chaos and violence of grief. The regret of the past is ferocious, but I must stay proactive. I must continue to tell people what I have learned. This letter is that very thing. A lesson, no matter how small and poorly written, filled with the love I can no longer express to Mason.

If you’re reading this, may we all continue to have beautiful tomorrows and honor those who no longer get to watch the sun rise.

Domenick F., University of Virginia

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