I wrote this for our sweet Maggie Flora in an introductory writing class at BYU in 2011. I stumbled upon it today and decided to post. It's pretty poorly written, but this isn't to impress - this is to honor Miss Maggie Anne. Enjoy!
Maggie’s Story
It was a day of boys, fruit punch, and anxious ambition. It was a day of no subsequent consequence, joy, or accident. It was just a day in April, and we were just two elementary school girls who thought we were far cooler than we were.
Being a nine year old girl, my favorite part of the day was always recess. Especially since I had met Maggie. She was just about as goofy as I was, if not even more. I met Maggie on the school bus, and we immediately clicked. Maggie was my role model; she was funny, creative, sweet, smart, everything an eight year old girl thought would make for a perfect person. Everyday on our bumpy bus ride, we would pass away the minutes by coming up with a new game to play at recess. We pretended we were scientists, archaeologists, super models, astronauts, everything. Today, we decided to be singers; we were going to be just like Avril Lavigne, S-club 7, or Aaron Carter. This adventure took a little bit of planning. Not only were we going to be singers, but we were going to put on a concert for our class in the school tree house. Being giddy little girls, we immediately starting imagining our careers taking off as pop stars. We were sure we would be famous, and if we didn’t get famous, we’d at least get a boyfriend. Maybe even a first kiss. As the bus rolled to a stop in front of our shabby little elementary school, we thought of the last line to our song: “‘cause I love you… more than fruit punch”. Although we wrote no chorus, no verses, and no catchy bridge, we had that one simple line. That line was what carried us through the next week. We constantly talked about our ‘band’. We even called ourselves the ‘sugar babies’; but naturally we pronounced it Sug-ah Babe-ees. Maggie’s mom had made us mustard yellow t-shirts. Which although mustard yellow is now seen in every anthropology magazine, in first grade it was a new color. Trend-setting was never our thing, but this time, we wanted the world to see us.
We passed the days singing through the hallways, meeting at the bathroom during math lessons, eating our lunch while writing lyrics, and giggling every morning in the back of the bus. We prepared for our Friday concert far more than we ever prepared for our Mad Minute Math races or our spelling tests. As recess came that Friday, we set stage for our big performance. Although we had maybe five people watching our performance, most of whom just so happened to be in the tree house that afternoon, we felt like we were in Times Square on New Years Eve and everyone was watching. I belted “Cause I love you… more than fruit punch!” with more passion and confidence than I had ever had before. We ended with an awkward silence, but it did not matter. Nothing mattered, because we were Aly & AJ, we were The Jonas Brothers, we were the A-Teens. We were the Sugar Babies and we were on top of the world.
At the end of the day I had one question for Maggie: “Why do we pretend to be different people everyday? Why can’t we just pretend to be Jenna and Maggie?”
“Because, Jenna, pretending is our escape from reality. When we pretend, we can be whoever we want to be.”
* * *
It was a day of swimming noodles, burger’s lake, and Texas
Burger’s lake is a slimy, nasty, old lake with a couple rope swings that will leave your hands covered in endless slivers. I still to this day do not understand why, but I loved that nasty place. Every summer, as Texas
Our parents would usually drive us, but today there were too many conflicts and we did not have a ride. As ambitious 6th graders, we were still bound and determined to still make it up to Burger’s Lake . After much deliberation, we decided to take the train to the Lake . Because the old-fashioned ride had a stop right outside the lake entrance, our parents reluctantly agreed. We packed our tuna-fish sandwiches, our pool noodles, and our goggles and were ready for our first outing with just the two of us. As we boarded the train, we immediately felt like Harry and Ron on our way to Hogwarts. Although we did not have wizardly powers and our final destination was nothing as mystical as Hogwarts, we still beamed as we waited for our pretend treat trolley to come down the walk way. Reaching burger’s lake was probably better than all Christmas’s and birthday’s combined. Even though we had been there a hundred times, this time felt different. This time we had gotten there on our own. This time we were actually treated like real teen-agers. We walked through that lake like we owned the place. With our noses held high and our flip-flops flopping, we marched to our usual picnic table. To our surprise, it was already taken by a mom and her four daughters. Although a little discouraged and upset that our perfect day was turned a little side-ways by a picnic table covered in graffiti, we anxiously awaited our day as almost adults.
We finally set off for the first platform jump. The feeling of being mature glazed our eyes to what was actually safe, and we started acting a bit reckless. As Maggie sprinted off the highest platform, I knew it wouldn’t end well. Maggie was flying through the air, and she actually looked quite graceful. Until… Flop. Gasps filled the swampy air. Maggie performed the most fantastic belly-flop I had ever witnessed. Fantastically painful, that is. As Maggie crawled out of the water, I could tell the day was over. We spent the next three hours having different moms and babysitters pity us, scold us, and some try to help us. Our day was officially over; we officially were not teenagers; and we were officially never allowed to go back to Burger’s Lake by ourselves again.
At the end of the day I had one question for Maggie: “Why do you love to go to Burger’sLake every day in the summer? It’s just an old, nasty, lake with a couple of rope swings.”
“Because, Jenna, Burger’s Lake is my escape from reality. When I am here I feel like I can do anything.”
* * *
It was a day of imagination, deep conversation, and art. It was a day of no subsequent consequence, joy, or accident. It was just a day in October, and we were just two high school girls who thought we were far more artistic than we were.
Maggie is an artist. She colors canvas’ and spreads beauty throughout a lonely surface. Completely immersing herself in her artwork, Maggie not only grew as an artist, but also as a person. I guess you could call me an artist too, but a better description would be ‘a girl who just took art classes’. Although I could never astonish people with my art like Maggie could, I loved drawing things, people, events, emotions, anything. Everyday, Maggie and I rode the bus from one school to another for our art class sixth period. It was extremely un-cool to ride the bus between our high school’s split campus’, but we did not care. Our most intimate secrets had been shared in the back seats of that bus, ever since we were little girls. This particular day, I remember being in such an intense conversation that the bus driver had to yell at us in order for us to realize that the bus had arrived at the school. We tried to cover up our embarrassment, and walked out the bus with our head’s hung low.
Although I do not remember the exact words spoken that day on the bus, I do remember what those words influenced me to paint. I painted fruit punch. A simple glass of fruit punch that had spilled; where the liquid should have been running, a coarse rope swing covered in nasty lake moss hung; where the stain should have been there was only a life. A beautiful life filled with color, imagination, and happiness. It seemed as if I was not controlling the brush strokes anymore. I completely immersed myself in my art. Whatever advice Maggie gave to me that particular day on the bus; whatever profound things she had to say about my latest crush, Drew Cossu; whatever story she told; it made an impression on me. It gave me inspiration that I did not even know existed. Maggie inspired me.
At the end of the day, I had one question for Maggie: “Why do we spend hours immersing ourselves drawing, sketching, and sculpting?”
“Because, Jenna, art is our escape from reality. When I am drawing I feel like anything is possible.”
* * *
Maggie died on September 5th, 2008. She was only 15 years old. This beautiful little girl had lost sight of her promising future. She had forgotten how to find happiness in the simplicity of playing pretend, of jumping into a dirty lake, of drawing a beautiful portrait. Every person she touched could never forget what value her life in particular had. Maggie could never find her escape from reality; she could never grasp an escape that made her happy. Being at
This is beautiful, Jen. Read the whole thing.
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