On Feb. 12, freshman Alexia Hyneman passed away after being struck by a vehicle. Read more at https://thesoutherneronline.com/frontpage/?p=61964 .

by Sylvia Price

Dear Alex:

I never really believed in fate, but I think it was fate that we met. There were those times we met before we met, three times. The first two times may have been the same day, I don’t remember. That was way back in the beginning of August, before school even started, on meet and greet, I think. You were wearing your Centuries t-shirt, and I complimented you on your t-shirt both times. Now I can’t listen to Centuries without thinking of you and crying. They played it at your funeral, you know? With the slideshow of pictures of you. The third time was the one you knew about, that I told you about after we became friends. When you had your Dan and Phil masks in PE and I wanted to talk to you but I had to get to health class. You know the story. It’s weird, I asked you that one day at lunch if we could be friends, because that’s clearly how you make friends in high school, and that’s what happened. We became friends. And I called you my best friend, because you were. Best friends are supposed to stick together, but fate’s pretty heartless.

‘This is gospel, for the fallen ones, locked away in permanent slumber.’ Everyone who went to Coffeehouse that night heard you sing that song, with your beautiful voice, and now you’re one of those fallen ones. ‘If you love me, let me go,’ you sang. But I love you, and I never want to let your memory go. Don’t ask that of me. ‘’Cause I won’t give up without a fight; if you love me let me go…’

Aren’t funerals supposed to give you a sense of closure? Because yours sure didn’t do that for me. Like, I know you’re gone. But there’s part of me that’s still refusing to believe that, and that’s the part I want to listen to. I write letters to you, useless letters. And I keep seeing you lying there in your coffin and I can’t get the image out of my mind and I can’t stop crying.

I think it’s interesting how many of the memorials for you say Alexia instead of Alex. You wouldn’t let any of us call you that. You were strictly Alex. The bike by your memorial, the window art even Trader Joe’s did, the desk in the Latin classroom, the letters home from the school, they all say Alexia. Even my phone wants me to say Alexia. When I type in Alex, the second suggestion is Alexia. Honestly, you’re just Alex to me and that won’t change for any number of memorials that say your full name.

You’re just lying there, surrounded by flowers and things you love. Your eyes are closed. You have eyeliner, of course. Everybody knows you wouldn’t let us see you without it, and that is a true fact. Your hat is on your lap and there are flowers even in the brim of that. The silk is so clean and white on the lid. You’re wearing black, yeah. Not just a black dress. Your jacket and probably a nice shirt and black jeans. I don’t know about that part. Your hair is perfect, like always. You should’ve worn a helmet, you know? It wouldn’t have messed up your hair. Your hair was always perfect. No matter what colour it was. Light blue is so pretty.

You’ll go down in history; we’ll remember you for centuries.

Love, Sylvia.