“When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure.”
I have encountered a saying that goes like this, “The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” And I know for a fact that it, indeed, is.
Who was Mark Anthony Mascardo?
He was every song you listen to. He was the depths of everything you love looking into. He was every sunrise you dwell your eyes in. He was every poem that makes your heart swell. He was everything beautiful in this world.
Mark was exactly how you would picture out an angel to be, except he did not have his wings because he wanted to fly something with wings himself. It was in the nature of angels to fly, to stay close to his home. So he chose a path that would lead him to just that. Mark wanted to be a pilot. My heart knew he could have been.
He was everything you could ever look for in a friend, or a son, or a person in general.
Mark was not only our friend, he was our brother. He was family. Turning back time would not be an option here, but savoring every moment we had with him, is.
He did not like to waste time–in fact, he did not follow time. He made his own and lived it, one thing we all looked up to him for. He was his own person, and he had a great way of being missed.
He would tease people he was comfortable with, and laugh to his heart’s content when he would get a reaction out of them. He would share, not secrets, but memories with people that entered his life. He made promises; some he kept, some he reserved for our next meeting, but we knew him well enough to know he would be fulfilling them one day.
He was the kind of person you would not mind spending the rest of your day in silence with because his breathing calmed your own, and you knew he would still be there even when you think he is not.
He was the kind of friend you would long to have with you, and by your side even when you know you have many others, because you know they are not him.
He was the kind of person who would make the world seem dull to you even when the rest of the world is screaming colors.
He was the kind of person who would make you want to get to know him just by hearing his laughter or the way he made people around him laugh.
He was the kind of person you could not forget when you are off to higher ground.
He was the kind of stranger you would want to get to know. He could be sitting right next to you in computer class, and weeks would pass by, and you would be longing for his company whenever he is gone.
He was a person you would miss, and that is okay. Pain takes time.
Although some may think he is gone in a sea of “never’s,” believe me, he is not, and if he could have had touched your hearts, he would stay there forever.
On Aug. 20, 1998, an angel was born. Seventeen years later on Oct. 28, 2015, that angel flew back home. (Mil E. Gerodiaz, Grade 10, Catherina Cittadini School)
