Never in my life can I remember feeling so trapped, so helpless. A baby may cry, but his loving mother will eventually return, to send back all fear and pain into oblivion. If I cry, I will only push her away even farther.

I don't know how public or private I can or should go here. I'm lost in an ocean of uncertain quicksand. I don't know where I can step, which way will lead me out, but I feel myself sinking all the time.

I can feel anger rising up inside of me now, but I don't even know exactly what I am angry about. I've never been the kind of person who can't stand not having absolute control over any situation, but now the words "nothing I can do" haunt me day and night, beating against my skull. I dream that one day, those words will finally escape the cage of my mind. But when they finally crash through the wall into the world, I fear they will leave their silhouettes in the wall behind like Looney Tunes characters fleeing in frenzied panic as a reminder of their horrible power.

I rarely cry now. It's been that way for several years, but before that, I cried much more than most other boys my age. I would cry when I got in trouble at school and felt that leaden weight in my stomach, the disappointment and anger I might face pulling down on my throat, my Adam's apple, bringing the tears out through sheer weight and gravity. I cried sometimes when I experienced physical pain, but those times were never as bad; the pain was nothing compared to the hot mix of shame, self-loathing, and anger that plagued me. I don't know whether this happened by conscious effort or the natural effects of aging, but I find myself physically unable to cry in most situations. I remember when Rory died in eighth grade, I wanted to cry so badly, partially for reasons that I am not proud of today. Part of me wanted that sympathy, that sense of belonging that comes with grieving as a part of a group. I think (and I hope) that the major reason I wanted to cry was to prove to myself that I was indeed human, not stone indifference. But taking another critical look at myself, I see that I thought that situation was the first test: death, if nothing else, would separate those who were sensitive and caring from those who were merely loud and abrasive (as I often was) without anything underneath. I was supposed to cry; why couldn't I? As much as I hate to admit, as I sat aimlessly in school that day, the day we found out (February 22nd), I am not sure whether I grieved more for Rory or for myself. Then there was a memorial a few weeks later, in a big auditorium of a church/school combo. I sat through much of it feeling like a passive observer. I mainly learned how little I knew about him, but also how utterly worthy of knowing he was. I witnessed the photographic version of his life, speeding up as he grew older. (It's odd: as a society, we seem to value innocence and purity so much that we capture these moments in children's lives almost to exclusion, but most of our behavior as a whole totally contradicts that sentiment.)

The memorial finally reached the point where audience members were invited to come up and share their memories and messages about and to Rory. I still felt like I was an outsider in Rory's life, so I was planning to sit it out. After some of Rory's family got up and spoke, Derek Dwyer came up and talked about how Rory sat with him and his friends at lunch. At first, I was compelled to think of this with some small amount of scorn: how could merely eating lunch mean anything when compared to the people that had literally stood by Rory's side throughout the entire ordeal? But then I realized that Derek was making tribute in his own way, celebrating Rory, and life, in its simplicity, its everyday-ness. After Derek sat down, my mom (who sometimes acts like she's my personal promoter) continued to tell me to go up and speak. I think she told me I might regret not doing so later, but even if she didn't, I thank her. I went up to the microphone, and every bit of eloquence left me. I said something about how intimidating Rory's outlandish haircuts were to opposing Scholastic Bowl teams. All I remember about my speech after that was some stammering and finishing with "Rory, we love you." By the time I got half-way back to my seat, I had broken down crying. I wept then as I had not in years. I made up for every time that I had felt invisible law telling me this is when you should cry; every heart-rending movie, every book that settled its fog of abject depression over me for a day, or a week, without sudden release. I wept then for Rory. I wept for his nobility, his ambition, his brilliance. I wept for the time he proclaimed to his dad after reading about Gandhi: "One day, I will change the world." I wept for how he reminded me of myself, or how I would like to think of myself. I wept for how when you unraveled all the little pretensions and fabricated dramas of middle school, Rory was a tender, fragile little boy who died in his father's arms, who dreamt big and touched more lives that he could possibly imagine.

After the program inside the auditorium, we approached his dad. As I put forth my hand to shake his, he wrapped his arms around me and told me, "Rory wanted to be you. He so admired what you do, what you achieved. You were his role model, Siva." I don't think anything could have prepared me for that. I don't remember the exact words, but somehow I don't think they mattered. For the first (and about the last) time, I felt like a member of that inner circle of Rory's truly loved ones. When I got home, I cried two more times in the shower. I felt inspired to live up to Rory's image of me, and I imagined myself receiving an award for curing cancer and dedicating it to Rory. That feeling ended up not lasting forever, but I am not too sad about it. I do not feel horribly guilty that February 22nd passed by this year with little to none recognition, including from me. Rory's legacy is not of guilt and sorrow. Rory will always remind me to fight for love, for happiness, for life itself. Rory will prevent me from living as in a padded hallway, protecting myself against pain at the cost of living a hazy travesty of real life. Rory tells me to leap, to understand and accept pain and consequences, to never stop straining and reaching for what is important to me, to be proud of my hope and not dismiss it as naïveté. Every now and then, I will hear Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's achingly beautiful medley of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and "What A Wonderful World," and I will go back to that darkened auditorium where I confronted despair and found Rory instead.