In my eighteen years of living, many memories have already been captured in my mind. Some good, some bad. But the one that stands out most is my 12th birthday. On my birthday, December 6th, it has become tradition for my family to celebrate my birthday on a search for the perfect Christmas tree, followed by dinner at a local restaurant. Then, we head back home for an out-of-tune rendition of “Happy Birthday” around my cake. I usually wear a birthday hat and my mom snaps away with her camera, capturing the moment on a three-by-five photo.

The year of my 12th birthday was different. We did find the perfect tree. We had a delicious dinner. All that was left was to wait for my favorite carvel ice cream cake to thaw just enough to allow the knife to slice into it. Before we did, there was a knock at the door. My brother answered, expecting to invite our visitor to join in on the celebration. There was our neighbor, a seventeen year old boy with tears streaming down his face, barely able to speak. We find out his mother had just been stabbed to death by his father. My family did our best to comfort him and to let him know we are there for him, as we were trying to wrap our brains around what had just happened. A life gone so tragically. I was only 12 years old and already learning a difficult concept. Life can be so transient, so fleeting. I will never forget looking past my neighbor, into the kitchen seeing the balloons bouncing under the fan and my birthday cake forgotten on the counter, melting away in an ironic twist on the celebration of life.