Memory

Okay, this isn't a story, but it's an essay and it's for creative writing so I think it's okay.

I really like this one.

I have a lot of really good memories. I have memories of days I took on dragons and monsters and knights in battle armor. I have memories of picking locks and stealing goods for the poor, or being Princess Peach and battling Bowser. I have memories of arguing with my step-brother about whether or not Wood Elves were better than Light Elves, and of acting out a story that would later turn into my first novel. Going through my drawer of memories is like watching a movie of adventures; half of them fake, half of them real. I know that some of my childhood extravaganzas will go away and fade with time, but the real memories, the ones I breathed in and saw and felt, will remain with me forever.

I've mentioned in a few essays about how this last year was life-changing for me. I've talked about how it was difficult and how it was filled with pain and challenges. That's all true, but some of that pain led to the most memorable experience I have ever had. And for a change, it isn't one that will haunt my nightmares.

Sadly, the wonderful experience wouldn't have occurred without the tragedy that preceded it. On October 10, 2009 the American Fork High School Marching Band was coming home from Pocatello, Idaho after sweeping, or winning every caption, of the Pocatello competition. I can still remember how good we all felt! I was laughing and talking with my friend Zoe and sending a random text every once in a while to my friend Shelby, who was on a different bus because she was a woodwind and played clarinet. It was a little unusual that I actually had my phone on me, since I had often forgot it in my case or at home during those days.

I will never forget the moment Mr. Arnold, our assistant director, stood up and shouted at us all to “Shut up!” His voice was panicked, a phone to his ear. The message was delivered down the bus as the vehicle pulled over and sat there. I didn't know what to think, what to do. It was several hours later that any of us knew the extent of what had happened in that second.

One of our buses had overturned, the driver passed out at the wheel. They had narrowly avoided falling off a sheer cliff side only a few feet to their right. It was the woodwind bus. Our teacher, Heather Christensen, had jumped forward the instant she saw the driver begin to teeter at the wheel. She'd grabbed it, barely managing to maneuver the bus away from the drop beside them; she was thrown out the window and smashed beneath the monster for her troubles.

She saved all of those children's lives.

Everyone I knew had started to call, or text, my phone. They asked if I was okay, asked about what had happened. I gave them all a mechanical, genial response, unable to think past the fog in my brain. At first I had panicked, thinking Shelby had been on that bus, but she hadn't been. She'd been on the Color Guard bus. She, Erika, and John had all waited for me because I had been late and they hadn't been able to find a spot on the woodwind bus that day.

It was my fault that my three best friends in band weren't on that bus when it crashed and flipped.

Am I a bad person for being grateful for that? Am I horrible and evil for thanking God that I had been a few minutes late? How dare I be grateful that my closest friends weren't on that bus when others were. How dare I feel even a glimmer of happiness on that night when the world went to Hell.

I've kept my phone on my person every second of the day ever since that moment. I didn't even march without it in my pocket. Leaving it for even a moment makes me feel like I'm about to have a heart attack. What if something happened? What if I couldn't reach my friends in time?

Unfortunately, it's necessary for me to explain this experience in order to understand the one that came after it. My world was shattered that night; a quarter of my family, my fellow band members, had been on that bus. Had been in danger. We all became so close as a band family, it's hard to even comprehend one of them being lost. Because of Heather, not one of them were taken away from us. The police made sure to push this point home to us, over and over. This was a miracle.

They all should have died.


Our band tour that year would take us to the Western Regional Championship. My first year in marching band the American Fork Band got second in the Western Region for the first time since we'd been founded. I still consider that one of the best memories I have. In 2008 we had actually won first place in the entire Region. That memory is one of the shinning points of my life.

And yet, that doesn't hold a candle to how what it felt when we marched onto that field in 2009. This year, this time, I wasn't marching for me. I wasn't marching for anything that I wanted. I wasn't marching for glory or for the chance to win the championship. I was marching for the person who saved my family. The person who protected the people I care about. Flashbacks played underneath my eyelids, bringing that night back to me with perfect clarity. Sobs were clogged in my throat, but I held my head up high, eyes shinning as the rest of my family marched around me. They were all there. Not one of them was missing from this most important of all performances.

It was because of her that they all had been there, standing and marching beside me.

I prayed hard that night, closing my eyes in those moments right before we marched onto the field. My friends surrounded me, the trumpet section being more accepting than I had ever known them to be. They were literally my brothers and sisters. I hugged each and every one of them, individually. Then I went and sought out John, Shelby, and Erika. Then I went and looked for Zoe's little brother, Sam, who had been on that bus that night. I hugged him too. It was time to perform.

There are no words. No words that could ever give justice to marching onto that field beneath that crowd. No words to explain the lights that shinned down, to explain the goosebumps that erupted along my skin as I looked up at the screaming crowd as they leaped off their chairs and cheered us on. No words to describe the feeling of the tears falling down my cheeks and onto my beautiful silver trumpet.

I wish something I wrote could ever give it justice. I wish something I spoke would ever be able to explain, but it won't. I could never even come close.

We performed. We performed in a way that I have never done before nor sense. Even when we went to Grand Nationals afterward, something nobody thought would happen, it didn't match this moment. It came close, but I had been hoping for another performance after that one. On this occasion, I thought that this would be my final show. The final time I would stand in that uniform, perform this music. On this occasion, I thought it was my final chance to give tribute to my hero.

I don't think there was a dry eye in the entire stadium. I know mine weren't; the tears cascaded down my cheeks but I had to ignore them. I couldn't focus on them, because I needed to perform that night. And tears would only get in my way. I played with everything I had. I tried to put my soul into my horn, put my heart into the music. It was the most amazing experience I have ever had. I never stood straighter, held my horn higher, or looked upon the judges with more pride.

We had a purpose. We were one family and we had lost a member. A beautiful wonderful woman who had saved her children. We were playing for her.

For Heather.

When it was finished, not a single soul remained in their seats. Not one person attempted to stop the flow of moisture from their eyes. The lump in my throat grew into an unbearable size and my tears flowed unhindered. Looking around me showed the same for everyone else.

So if someone asks me, “What is your most memorable experience?” Or asks what I have accomplished in my life so far, I will always give them an answer. I will always tell them it was the night I played my horn for a hero. I will tell them it was the night we won Western Regionals.

It was the night Heather Christensen looked down from heaven and smiled.