As soon as she heard the news, Isabella, my best friend in the whole world came over to my house. Softly closing the door to my room, she came and perched on the edge of my bed, where I was laid out like an insect for dissecting.

"Oh Willow" she murmured as she rubbed my back. "Oh Willow".

I had hidden in my room to be alone, away from my family, but I was glad that she had joined me. I couldn't bear to let my family see how broken I was, but I knew that Izzy could offer only comfort. As I sobbed for all that I had lost, my friend rubbed my back, staying with me until I fell asleep.

The next day I decided to stay home from school, and Isabella's amazing mom let her stay home with me.  The rest of my siblings, Rain and Robin, stayed home with me too, but our parents went to work.  In the light of day, I clung to my family rather than shunning them, depending on them and Isabella for the comfort of familiarity. All day we wept and mourned; lamenting our loss better than the best paid mourners. When night came and our parents returned, our family sojourned across the street to Isabella's house, where her kindly mother was to make us dinner.

While we were waiting in her room, Isabella talked to me. She said many things in a soothing sort of monotone, few of which did anything to lessen my pain. I had found to my disappointment, that words were not of much comfort in the yawning face of death. I had always believed that with a few choice words, I could relieve the pain of someone suffering a  loss, but this was not the case. Words did nothing. Nevertheless, Isabella spoke on, and I did nothing to stem the flow of her conversation.

"Willow" she said as I sat disconsolately on the bed, "I know what a special bond you had with your uncle over writing, and you are going to want to give up. Don't".

I knew that what she said was probably true, but I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to think that there was anything that could keep me from writing, even my grief. And to give up on writing was like giving up on my uncle. It would have been so easy to pretend that Isabella had no idea what she was talking about, or what I was going through. But I couldn't do her the injustice of pretending that I had not once done what she was now doing for me. After watching her twin brother get shot to death in a school shooting when she was 7, Izzy knew just about everything there was to know about loosing someone you loved.

Her voice brought me back to the present, as she intoned fervently,

"Promise me Willow. Promise me that you won't give up. Even though your in pain, you have to just keep fighting".

"Of course I will Izzy" I promised carelessly. "I couldn't give up".

About a week later, when I was back at school, and could pretend to retain some sort of normalcy, we received a short story assignment in Language Arts. It was the type of project that I usually would have loved, a simple creative writing assignment with few restrictions. Now however, I found myself dreading it.

"I can't think of anything to write about" I complained to Izzy as we walked home together after school.

"There you go, already trying to give up just because it's hard. Tonight, while you fall asleep, try to think of ... 5 things in your room that could inspire a short story. Then, starting tomorrow, write a little every day. It will get easier and easier until you are writing like normal. See you tomorrow". With a cheery wave, she skipped off to her house while I walked more somberly to mine.

As I thought about what she had said, I decided to try it. Though it was often painful at first, it did get easier every day until I was back to my old self. It took months to get myself back to normal, but without Isabella's advice it would have taken me much, much longer.