As I feel my shoes hit the warm parking lot, I remember the time I spent as a child here in preschool. But when the same spot turned into a full-time funeral home years later, I never thought I’d be back. And yet, here I am.

“Give me a hug man. I may never see you again.”

I have never heard another truer statement in my life.

I walk through the doors, painted pure white as if they are supposed to hold some divine reverence, and that scene plays through my head, forever on repeat.

I see the casket, and I become sick to my stomach. My fingers shake, my palms sweat, my knees become weak. There are a few friends I haven’t seen since they left for college and a few from school. They’re all talking, exchanging stories about our mutual friend, but my eyes remain transfixed on the casket.

Sharpies lay beside it, and there’s some spots left that people haven’t signed yet.

“If you want to go up there, I’ll go with you.”

Slowly, as if in a trance, I walk to the front and see his face. A million thoughts race through my mind. God, why him? What should I have said or done differently? And most importantly, why was this 17 year-old boy forced to think like this? Friends are supposed to leave when you’re old, not now. Not while they still have their life ahead of them.

The moment freezes to a standstill. I grab a marker; rip off the cap and think of what to say. My mind goes blank. What should I say? What could I say? Out of all the time spent with him, I had a 60-second chance to send my final farewell in a blank spot barely the size of my palm. Almost like signing a yearbook, except you know you will never see them again.

I quickly jot something and sit down before I give myself a chance to cry. Hands dug deep into my eyes, my gut clenches as I tell myself to keep it together.

The evening passes, and I catch up with everybody. The college freshmen describe their first week away from home, and while I enjoy talking with them, I needed to get away. The blatantly loud music and forced faces of happiness for this “celebration” of life unhinges me, as if to taunt the sorrow I feel inside.

It’s a Saturday night, so everyone has plans except me. I come home and see my dad in his recliner, where he has always been. He starts talking, and I prepare for what will be another all-night conversation about God, politics and work. I love discussing those things, but 17 years of hearing the same speech can drive a kid crazy.

But, something inside me wanted to hear more. I wanted to hear his voice for a little bit longer, just to know he was still there.