I died on a Tuesday. I have always liked Tuesdays. My friend Heather once asked me why. It was simple. They came before Wednesdays.

I surprised myself over this last week how well I have managed to keep myself together. The first day was the worst. I was alone and sad. I wanted to cry on my mother’s shoulder, but I knew I would never be able to again. For that matter, I will never hug her again or receive a gentle kiss on the cheek before I sleep at night. There is no need to sleep now. Nor ever.

Being dead is interesting. I am never tired, but never feel pressured to do anything. I can take my time because when dead time is endless. It feels great, but also very bad. It is worse then anything you have ever felt alive. You are so alone. I cannot cry. The tears won’t come. If I cried, it would be pointless anyway because I know there is simply nothing I can do to make me wake up and dig myself out of the six feet of dirt lying on top of my useless body.

I am fifteen. Or was fifteen. I died in a car accident like most adolescents who die so young do. I could blame the driver, but it was not his fault. I have watched him suffer as it is since my death. He prayed for two hours straight. The whole time he prayed he cried. He must have been in his sixties. His wife was just as old as he was. It was all an accident. I forgave him by the second day after I died. I realized his pain was far greater then my death. He would have to live with it for years. If I could find a way to tell him it was all okay I would. But I have not found a way yet. Believe me. I have tried everything to get across to my family to tell them I love them. It was all in vain, my screaming to them at my funeral.

It was a nice service. There were many flowers. There were even more people though. I was surprised. Even some kids from school I would have never guessed would show up did so and all of my friends, some whom I have not seen in a while. All of my relatives were there too. I felt bad for leaving them so soon. That did not help me feel better about this whole thing, but it brought nice closure. It was chance for me to say good-bye (even though they could not hear me).

I could hardly watch the burial. It was odd. It was as if I was mourning the death of a cousin, even though it was I in the coffin. I spent 15 years waking up to see myself, or rather my body, in the mirror. That was me. That was my identity. And then I watched them bury it in dirt to rot. It was hard to let go. In fact part of me still has not let go to the fact that I will never be able to see myself again.

After the service I followed my mother home and watched her cry for hours. That did not make anything any easier. At that moment, I realized I needed to stop following my family around; not my mom, nor dad, nor sister. It hurt too much. It made me depressed and left me wishing to be alive. I cannot be alive. I will never again be alive. So why torture myself that way?

So I left. I decided to stay at my gravestone in the cemetary. It was a compromise. I would be alone and have time to think to myself, to rediscover myself, however dead, but still time to see my family once in a while.

I sat by my stone for three days. It was not completely boring. I watched the caretaker replace my flowers. He was quite entertaining. He was a bubbly person for someone in his work. He put great care and detail into how the flowers were arranged. He smiled when he was finished and I wanted to applaud him. He deserved it. The flowers looked nice. And when you are dead, you care about small things like that. They made the world a bit brighter.

Before he moved on to the next stone he mumbled soft sincere words. He stared at my headstone as if it was me sitting there instead of a block of granite. I appreciated it. He did not know me, but he cared enough to say something gentle and touching. I was happy for the first time since I died last Tuesday.

I sat some more long hours by my stone. I watched the flowers. They were pink. I am not sure what kind of flower. I was never a very good gardener.

The next day I sat for hours still. I watched the grass grow up from the newly turned soil. I wished I could rearrange the flowers some. The wind knocked them over the night before. I could not touch them though. I did not know how or if there was even a way to at all. I tried, but it did not work.

The nights were horrible at first. They were dark and lonely. What should I be afraid of though? I am dead and nothing can harm me, but I am not used to that. Alive, I have realized, people are so paranoid. Not that we do not need to be, but death is such an escape from all that. There is no need to fear the dark and what danger it holds for death is man's greatest fear. And I am already a victim of it.

The fourth day at the graveyard was the one-week anniversary of my death. I was not very happy about it of course, but still thought about celebrating. I had become extremely lonely in that week. It felt like something to do that could make me feel most normal. It would remind me of all those holidays spent with my family. Those were some of the best days of my short life.

I waited intently instead though. I was sure my family would visit. Four short days passed and already I dreamed of seeing them again. I wanted to see them again terribly. They did not come in the morning, however, and did not come in the afternoon either.

But someone did. His name was Mike. I knew who he was at once. I saw him around the corner of the street coming from behind the tree. The sun was bright in his eyes. He was squinting, and was gorgeous doing so.

I got up at once and dusted myself off, forgetting it was all for nothing. I wanted to hide. I felt positive he could see me, yet he walked right past me without a glance.
He did not stop at my grave. Frozen where I stood, I watched him leave up the hill and out of sight. I wanted to follow him, but was so used to avoiding him when I was alive that I could not even move.

He had been in my class at school. He might not have known it, but I sure did. He was a grade above me and rode my bus. I saw him almost everyday. Each day I would like him even more. His smile, his hair, his laugh were all beautiful. He rarely talked to me. Yet it meant everything to me when he did. For a fleeting moment I was in heaven. Now it is only irony.

I was so happy when I saw him walk by me. I wished I could have followed him up the hill. Better yet, I wished I could see him at school or on the bus once more being his awkward self.

I was left to think about what just happened. I was once again alone. It was not long before I felt incredibly depressed. I was so shy when I was alive. I should have said hello to him. Now I never will, nor will I say another word to anyone. My love is pointless, all in vain. I wanted to cry again. The tears were none.

I thought about the gentleman who killed me. For the first time, I despised that old man with every fiber of my being.

The rest of the day I sat in sorrow. That night I curled in a ball by my stone and thought hateful thoughts until morning.

I found myself very lost the next day. I felt useless. I did not understand why I was still on Earth. I had no clue why I was the only person dead either. Where was everyone else? Many people die. The graveyard was blatant proof.

I also found that I could not remember what I looked like. I strived to remember, but could not.

He came again. I was delighted to see him. Then he left up the hill and I was miserable once more.

He came around the same time the next day and the day after that. But not on Saturday or Sunday.

My mother came Monday. She came during work hours. I assumed no one knew she was there. I was so happy to see her. She cried again though. She left quickly. I wanted to go with her, but I hated seeing her upset.

Mike did not come that day. I walked around the cemetery thinking about him. I remembered a time his gym class played baseball. He was horrible.
The more I thought about him the more I wanted to see him.

He was so beautiful. It hurt my dead heart. He had brown hair that barely covered his eyes and a smile that lit up an entire room. His features were not soft, though. They were rough. His eyes had rings around them from allergies and lack of sleep. He usually never smiled. He said hardly anything also. When he talked it was odd. The things he said sounded like he was just trying to impress his friends. But I forgave him for that. I was often like that too.

It was Tuesday again. It was better then last Tuesday. And Mike showed up again.
I was at the top of the hill this time. I saw him walk passed me and into the woods that lined the graveyard. There was a trail through the woods. He must have lived across the woods. I had walked there once before when I was little. It was quite scary.

It then occurred to me what he was walking home from. School had ended. I was surprised school had continued on without me. I briefly wondered if anyone noticed I was missing. But of course they did.

I thought about going to the school the next day, but I was too nervous. My friends were there. My teachers, my classmates were all there. I would not be there in school. None of them would ever see or hear of me again. Yet if I went I would be there, only invisible and rather dead.

I sat on a bench for a few hours after that. I watched the sun go down and the stars appear in the sky. It was tranquil. I contemplated Mike and me. I thought up a passionate story of how we fall in love and become inseparable. But it was very much  so fiction. It was all just a game.

I was growing to dark. I was getting scared again. I became my walk over to my gravestone. I felt safest there.

It was not long, however, that he showed up. Mike was walking quickly down the hill with his hands in his pockets. His face was in shadow, but I could see the trouble on his face. It had nothing to do with me I could tell. The graveyard did not faze him any.

I stood in front of my gravestone and watched him walk past briskly.

He stop abruptly just before the tree. He turned around slowly. To my utter surprise he was looking at me. He blinked, but I knew he saw me. If only for a moment, he did. He took a step back still staring in my general direction.

My mouth was open in shock. I could not speak or breathe. But breathing was just by habit of course. Nevertheless, I felt so stiff and frozen.
He bolted for it, up the hill and out of sight.

Mike saw me. Did he recognize me? Is that why he ran? Or did he run because he just saw a ghost? I was not sure. My mind was such in a fray.

My equivalent of sleep was forgotten. Instead I spent all night pacing the length of the cemetery. It was such a bittersweet moment. He looked right into my translucent eyes. And I stared into his very live eyes. All the time I had forgotten my fear of the dark night.

He came by again after his day at school. He walked tentatively up the cemetery’s road. I had to hand it to him. He was brave.

This time he did not pass by my stone. He stopped by the tree. And looked over at my general area. He had not so easily forgotten last night. That was clear. He stepped closer to read my stone. He read my name out loud: Eleanor Dana Lutz.
I loved hearing him say my name. I could see on his face it meant something to him. His mouth was open too.

He inched closer. He knew who it was. More importantly, he knew who I was.
He began to turn around. He was staring at the ground.

It was all a bit spontaneous, but when he began walking off I knew I had to follow him. I walked up the hill a good distance behind him. We went through the woods. In could not help getting closer to him then. It was too scary in there. I made sure there was some space though.

It was a short walk through the woods. Of course, time has become so indistinct since I died. The trail dumped out right by a street of houses. His was the first one across the street. I followed him in his house careful not to touch anything even though it would not have mattered at all.

I felt like I was intruding. His mother was home. He went in the kitchen where she was. She was busy cooking dinner.
"You know that girl who died?"he said.
My heart did not skip a beat. It does not beat at all. But it would have if it could.
"Yeah," she answered.
I moved out from in the doorway closer to them so I could hear.
"I heard about it," she continued, "You told me a couple weeks ago, remember? Why? Still feeling down?"
"I passed by her gravestone." he was not smiling.
"Really?" She looked up from cutting carrots.
"Yeah," he ruffled his hair in a cute manner.
"I"m sorry."
I knew I was missing something. It was as if they were picking up a conversation. I inched closer so I could see Mike's face better.
"Yeah, I just," he said avoiding his mother's eyes, "It was kind of funny."

Funny? I failed to see the humour. His mother must have too. She merely shook her head. Then Mike started up the stairs. I hesitated. It felt wrong to enter his room. I did not want to break his privacy. But then I followed him before I caught myself. I followed him up the stairs and into his room.

It was reasonably small. There was a lamp on a shelf by the door as we enter. He clicked it on. I lit up only half of the room. His walls were basically bare minus a few photos he had pinned up of bands or something. I did not recognize any of them. I was fascinated by his room. It was cozy. He had a desk in the corner with a bulletin hanging over it. It had various things on it; ticket stubs, photos, reminders, and a calendar. But his desk was less organized. He had a small pile of clothes a top a bunch of papers. And sprawled across that was a newspaper.

I wanted to read it. I carefully walked over to his desk. I did not need to be careful, but I had the utmost respect for him.

When I reached the desk I read the newspaper. As soon as I laid eyes on it I knew it was the report of my death just as I suspected. There was a picture of me in black and white, but even so I was so gracious to lay eyes on what I used to look like. I had forgotten. It was like looking at a stranger who you met just moments ago only I knew this person better then anyone else in the world.

The article was biased. It made the driver to be some horrid person. I felt guilty. I wanted to apologize to him.

I turned around to see what Mike was doing. He was taking off his shirt. I panicked. I shut my eyes and turned around quickly. If alive I would have knocked over the chair by his desk. I could have sworn I was blushing. I kept my eyes tight shut trying not to open them. I glanced around quickly. He was pulling up his clean pair of jeans. I felt terrible. I was invading his space. If he had known I was there, I would surely have died. Again, I mean.

He finished getting dressed though. He shut his door and plopped onto his bed. At first I did not see what he was doing, but then he pulled a yearbook out from under his bed. I knew what he was going to do: he was going to look for me.
I stepped closer eager to see my picture, not to mention my overwhelming surprise that all this was happening. I did not want to miss anything.

He turned to the page I was on. I looked at it almost as long as he did. I looked at my hair, the color of it, my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I remembered being so critical of my school picture, but now I cherish it so. He was on the same page, but before me. I looked at it for a while then at him sitting there. I sat on the corner of the bed.

I looked at him. He was red. My face fell.

It was not right of me. I should not have been there. He sat alone like he thought and cried. It was abnormal. Guys do not cry. Yet here he was. Crying. He clutched fists over his eyes until his knuckles went white. He was fighting to hold them back. He too knew guys do not cry, but he must not have been able to help it.

I felt sorry. It was my fault he was hurt. He was crying for me. How relieved at first I was to know he actually knew who I was. He actually liked me. But nothing was ever done. And nothing will be done. The only thing left his to move on. He will find someone else. He will be happy again. I like him better happy. I liked to see his smile. But now he sits and cries for me.

It was cruel to think that just the day before I wished we could be together forever. But that was not fair of me. Together forever could now only mean he would never get over my death. He would always be sad in the back of his mind. His heart would always be heavy. We could never be nor shall we.
He sat there grieving. It was then it occurred to me. He cried because he was mourning someone he liked, dare it be he even loved me. But grief is one of the steps to accepting the loss of a loved one when they die. It is something I have been doing all along to my family and my friends at my funeral, and now to Mike.
It was the process of grieving. I was grieving him and until now, have not been able to move past him. It was so easy to let go of my family because I know them so well. I know they can make it through the toughest of situations. And I knew they will always and have always loved me. With Mike I thought he did not even know me. I wanted to reach out to him, but there was no need. I could let go of him.

I could let him be happy again.
He deserves to be happy.
I want him to be happy.

I want to lay at rest forever more knowing that he is happy and that all of my friends and family are happy too. And they will be. I’m positive they will be.