In the midst of shattered homes and echoes of distant gunfire, life as a Syrian refugee was an unending cycle of resilience and despair. Death, once a distant specter, had now woven its somber threads into the very fabric of daily existence. It was as though we had become accustomed to its chilling embrace, always lurking in the shadows, a constant companion.

In our makeshift shelter, the walls bore witness to the stories of those who had fled, etched in the lines on weary faces. Each dawn seemed to carry a weighty anticipation, a tremor of apprehension for what the day might bring. The morning sun, though brilliant, could not quite pierce through the cloud of uncertainty that hung heavily in the air.

We huddled together, sharing tales of survival and dreams of a life reclaimed. Laughter, once a refuge from life’s hardships, now found its place alongside sorrow, creating a bittersweet melody that echoed within the confines of our temporary haven. We recounted the memories of loved ones lost, remembering their smiles as a fragile anchor to the past.

Every knock on the door or distant rumble ignited a whirlwind of emotions – hope and dread dancing an intricate tango. The wireless connection to the outside world, a fragile lifeline, transmitted both stories of courage and tragedies untold. With each passing day, it seemed we were bracing ourselves for another piece of devastating news, the kind that leaves scars on the heart that no time can fully heal.

Yet, amidst the darkness, there emerged a quiet strength, a resilience that was honed by the ceaseless challenges we faced. The simple act of carrying on, of nurturing life in the face of death’s omnipresence, was an act of defiance in itself. We learned to find solace in the bonds we forged, drawing strength from the unspoken understanding that we were all travelers on this arduous journey.

And so, as the days blended into nights and the seasons shifted with an indifferent grace, we found ourselves weaving a tapestry of survival, each thread bearing the weight of our collective experiences. Death may have become a constant companion, but in its chilling shadow, we discovered an unwavering resolve to cherish the fleeting moments of joy, to celebrate the resilience of the human spirit, and to hold onto the hope that one day, our shattered lives might be mended, and the echoes of gunfire replaced by the whispers of a new beginning.

In the quiet corridors of memory, where the echoes of laughter once danced, I stumbled upon a bittersweet note – the news of my childhood friend’s untimely passing in the aftermath of a heart-wrenching school bombing. Time seemed to stand still, as if the very air around me had frozen in disbelief, unable to comprehend the weight of this shattering revelation.

The walls of our shared past suddenly felt like fragile glass, threatening to fracture under the weight of the memories we had built together. Those hazy afternoons spent chasing dreams through sunlit fields, the innocent secrets whispered under the blanket fort, and the countless adventures etched in the sands of time, all seemed to gather in mournful assembly.

As the cruel details of the tragedy unfolded, I found myself caught in a tempest of emotions. Anguish, anger, and a profound sense of loss intertwined, weaving a tapestry of sorrow that enveloped my heart. How could a place of learning and laughter transform into a scene of unfathomable devastation? It was as if the very foundations of childhood had been rocked, leaving behind an irreparable chasm.

I wandered through the sepia-toned corridors of our memories, retracing each step of our intertwined journey. The laughter that once filled the air now felt like an echo from a distant realm, a haunting melody that whispered of moments forever gone. I clung to the fragments of our shared experiences, trying to keep the flickering flame of our friendship alive amidst the engulfing darkness.

In the midst of grief, a small glimmer of solace emerged. The memories we had woven were not mere illusions; they were a testament to the enduring bond that had weathered the storms of childhood. Our friendship, though tragically severed by the cruelty of fate, remained a beacon of light in the midst of despair.

And so, as I closed my eyes and allowed the tears to flow, I could almost hear the echoes of my friend’s laughter once again. It mingled with the whispers of the wind, carrying a promise that even in the face of unspeakable tragedy, the love and connection we shared would continue to resonate, a tribute to a friendship that had defied time and circumstance, and a reminder that the indomitable spirit of those we love can never truly be extinguished.

As the soft glow of candlelight flickers in the dimly lit room, I find myself seated on the familiar expanse of my bedroom floor. A lighter rests between my fingers, its small flame dancing hypnotically before being extinguished with a gentle breath. It’s a ritual, one I’ve carried out every year on this somber occasion – the eighth anniversary of your untimely passing. Time has flowed steadily, yet it’s as if a part of me remains suspended in those heart-wrenching moments.

At 24 years old, I stand at the crossroads of youth and adulthood, a juncture I never thought I’d reach without you by my side. Life’s journey has led me to Canada, a land of new beginnings and fresh horizons. The irony is not lost on me – I’ve “made” it here, achieved milestones that were once distant dreams. And yet, the void you left behind still casts a shadow, a persistent reminder that some wounds remain hidden even amidst apparent success.

As the calendar marks the eighth anniversary of that fateful call, the memory resurfaces with a pang of raw emotion. Your mother’s anguished voice reverberates in the recesses of my mind, a haunting echo that unfolded in our very living room. My own mother’s voice, as fragile as glass, delivered the news that defied comprehension. I remember needing to ask her three times, as if by repeating the words, their stark reality might dissipate into the ether.

“He died, at 16…”

The weight of those words rests heavy on my heart, a testament to the fragility of life and the arbitrary nature of fate. Sixteen, an age that should have been brimming with youthful exuberance and boundless potential, now forever etched in the annals of memory as a fleeting moment that was stolen away.

Yet, amid the ache of loss, there’s a flicker of solace. The flames I conjure and extinguish, much like the passing years, represent the delicate balance between life and the ephemeral nature of existence. In this quiet act of remembrance, I find a way to bridge the gap between the world we once shared and the one I now navigate alone. The candle’s glow becomes a beacon, illuminating the path we once walked together, a path that still lingers in the corners of my heart.

So, as I sit here, on the eighth year anniversary of your passing, I offer a silent prayer to the universe. May your spirit find peace in the cosmos, while I continue to carry your memory as a torch through the uncharted territories of life. Though the flames may waver, the bond we forged remains unbroken, a testament to a friendship that time cannot erase.

On this solemn day, marking the eighth year since you left this world, I kindle a candle, its gentle flame dancing in your honor, casting a warm glow that seems to reach far beyond the confines of this room.

Tonight, I find myself grappling with the complexities of a challenging chapter. The news of another childhood friend’s passing, a name now erased from my contacts, weighs heavily on my heart. With each life that departs, the list of those to embrace upon my eventual return grows shorter. And yet, as their earthly presence fades, their memory becomes a constant presence, a reminder etched into my daily prayers.

As the eighth anniversary of my cousin’s departure arrives, I am drawn into contemplation, pondering the enigmatic choices that God makes. The divine hand that decides who will be allowed to linger, to endure the struggles of life, and who will be called to depart. These questions echo in the quiet chambers of my mind, as I seek to understand the mysterious dance of existence.

Why was I spared, left standing in the wake of loss? Each breath I draw seems imbued with a weight, a sense of purpose that comes intertwined with the expectations of the world. How do I continue to inhale the very essence of life when the air feels heavy with the unspoken burdens that accompany survival?

In this poignant moment, surrounded by the flickering light of the candle and the weight of my thoughts, I acknowledge the delicate balance of existence. As I meditate on the tapestry of God’s choices, I’m reminded that life’s intricate design is woven with threads of joy and sorrow, loss and gain. In the midst of this intricate pattern, I discover strength – the resilience to persevere, to stand firm amidst the storm, and to keep breathing, even when each breath carries a multitude of expectations.

And so, I remain, a witness to the ebb and flow of life’s tides, a guardian of memories and dreams, kindling hope in the face of uncertainty, and honoring the legacy of those who have journeyed beyond the veil. The candle’s flame dances, an embodiment of resilience, a silent testimony that while we may not understand the why or the how, we can choose to continue embracing life, carrying our shared stories forward, and finding purpose in every breath we take.

On the solemn occasion of the eighth anniversary of your passing, I find myself seated on the cool expanse of my bedroom floor. A flickering lighter rests in my hand, its tiny flames dancing like memories before being extinguished with a gentle breath. I’m now 24, a number that seems both familiar and foreign, just like the fact that I’m here in Canada – a journey that bears the mark of “making it,” yet leaves me with an unshakeable sense that there’s more to achieve.

Eight years have passed since that heart-wrenching call, when the echoes of your mother’s anguished voice reverberated through our living room. The details of how my own mother delivered the news elude me, but I distinctly recall questioning her words three times, desperately hoping they might transform into some cruel illusion.

“He died, at 16…”

One by one, they slip away, the people I’ve held dear. Death’s cold fingers seem to tighten around the neck of those I love, taunting me with its ceaseless presence. Amidst the rubble of shattered lives, I’m faced with a choice – do I dare to love, to forge connections, when the specter of loss looms so heavily over my existence? How does one navigate life when every step forward is burdened by the weight of grief and the lingering heaviness of heartache?

My fatigue is palpable, a weariness that seeps into the very core of my being. The farewells, the condolences – they’ve become a haunting chorus, an unrelenting reminder of the fragility of life. How many more consoling words can I endure before I unravel? How many times can I bear to hear that they’re in a “better place” before I’m driven to the brink?

My faith, once steadfast, now wrestles with questions that echo in the caverns of my soul. I’ve given my devotion, my unwavering commitment to worship, yet I’m left grappling with the enigma of divine providence. Why must those I cherish be plucked away, while I am left standing? Why is my life spared when it feels as if it’s defined by a relentless dance with death?

I’ve narrowly escaped the clutches of mortality before – from the womb to the ravages of conflict. Each time, a fragile thread kept me tethered to this world. My mother’s words ring in my ears, a reminder of a debt I’m told I owe for being spared. Yet, this obligation sits heavy on my shoulders, a weight that threatens to crush me.

My daily existence is a delicate balance, caught between being the bearer of bad news and the weight of survivor’s guilt. Their pleas for help, for intervention, rest heavily on my heart. I’m expected to hold the role of a benevolent deity, delivering verdicts that cut deep into the fabric of life. It’s a burden that’s too immense to bear, yet I carry it, a responsibility that chips away at my soul with each passing day.

In the midst of it all, I am reminded that survival comes at a cost, one that can’t always be measured in mere physical presence. As the candle’s flame dances before me, its light flickering in the sea of my thoughts, I am left with a yearning for respite. A longing for the weight to ease, for the burden to be lifted, and for a moment of reprieve from the unending cycle of grief and loss.