When you still had breath to speak, when your fingertips, not ashes yet, composed your last emails, we talked about what we were going to do with ourselves now that we'd graduated, now that we'd just had our eighteenth birthdays and now that we were probably grown up.
You would tell me about taking new pictures for your book; about the the clothes they had you model in, and about not feeling confident. You would tell me about how everyone at the office you were working at loved you. I knew why they loved you.
I would tell you about how I was making progress with my portfolio, and how I was nervous about presenting it to an admissions counselor at Art Center. I would tell you about how I was working on a new drawing of you, and about not feeling confident. I met with the counselor because you made me feel like I could do it.
A few weeks later, I met with the psychiatrist because after you died, I didn't think I could do anything, and I didn't. I didn't want to draw new things if I wasn't going to be able to show you what I did, especially if you weren't going to be able to model in new photoshoots or write new poems for me to read. I didn't want to go to college and have new stories to tell you if telling you stories wasn't something I could do. So I disregarded my plans to apply to Art Center, and ended up not showing up for the remainder of the semester of classes I was taking at the community college.
So for two years, I've been a brooding mess. I've known the whole time that this isn't the type of person you remember, but fighting to become some amazing illustrator with a lost best friend in mind is hard to do right away.
Two weeks ago, I finished my submission portfolio to Art Center and hand delivered it to the south campus 30 minutes before the deadline. My written statement is about you.
Today I received an acceptance letter and scholarship. I start classes on January 14th, and I'm gonna kick ass.
I want you to know that you're still the fire in my chest and the glow behind my eyes. I'm not going to walk into my first class as one of the amazing kids who stands out as gifted but none of the other kids hold a muse's hand, and I'm going to grow to make you proud. Seeing pictures of you doesn't make me sad anymore, it doesn't hurt to read notes you've written, and now when someone asks who my signature here on deviantART is about, I smile to think that it's about you.
Fortune Cookie 5%
In high school, I took AP Art Workshop 3 times, and every year after our portfolios were turned in, we were each given a fortune cookie and assigned to use our fortune as a theme for a piece.