by Sheree Adams

Created on: March 15, 2009   Last Updated: March 13, 2012

They say that you can live a lifetime of thousands and thousands of days, but there are only a handful of days that make you who you are. Pivotal moments, I've heard them called. Of course, it would be nice if a red flag was flown and loud booming voice say, "THIS IS IT! THIS WILL BE ONE OF THOSE MOMENTS!" But, naturally, the flag is never flown and the voice is never heard. Instead, we look back on our memories and it is then that we understand their importance.

It was a warm summer day. I remember that. I was seven years old without a care in the world. As I stepped off the school bus the sun was shining and the birds were chirping. All was well in my world. As I walked my usual path to my grandmother's house I could smell sweet honeysuckle growing on their vines, I decided to pick a few. I remember thinking, "Maybe Missy will want some."

Missy was a little girl that lived in the house across the street from my grandparent's. She was only four, and I always felt as though my mere seven years was leaps and bounds older than her. She was the "friend" I never invited to my house for sleepovers,

I never told my other friends about, and the one that did anything and everything I wanted her to. Usually I treated her like a toy I would play with for a while and then when something more interesting came along, I would pitch her aside to do something else I thought was more worth my while. But on this day, I had secretly been missing Missy. I had started school a few weeks before and like the year before, I had stopped playing with Missy so much because I thought I had better things to do. So, honeysuckles were to be my peace offering.

As I began walking faster, anxious to play with Missy, I could see in the distance strings of yellow draping over Missy's house. I thought it was weird, but my mind was already cooking up the adventure Missy and I were to go on that day. It wasn't until I made it to my grandmother's house that I realized something was very wrong. My grandmother was waiting on her front porch for me, tears in her eyes. I remember thinking "Granny hasn't cried since Papaw Tiny died." Then she told me what had happened to the sweet little girl across the street.

Everybody talked about it for weeks after. Missy's house had caught on fire early in the morning. Her mom and two older brothers had made it out, but when the firemen went in for Missy, there was just too much smoke. There wasn't anything anybody could do.

I didn't really understand what death

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