The weather was dreary. It was cold, but not biting. There was snow, but it was scattered across the ground in dirty patches of icy mud, with flattened bits of brown grass poking up between the wet sludge. The sky was gray and it was windy, but only windy enough to make sure that I looked up to see if there was a storm coming, which there wasn�t, of course. It was days like this that made me wish for a storm, just so that I could escape the feeling of lethargy; it was like my life was being sucked out of me, making me just as listless as the barren trees, whose branches drooped suggestively in the wind, or the limp brown grass, which looked as if it had given up hope of ever escaping the strong grasp that the icy muddied snow had on it.

Begrudgingly, I hefted my hockey bag on my back and walked right by the pathetic examples of nature, proceeding to make my way into the cooler, more refined appearance of the ice hockey rink. My teammates, forever chattering amongst themselves, were likewise heading that way, each of them carrying a bag that was nearly bigger than they were and holding a worn-in hockey stick. One by one, we narrowly avoided the puddles of melting ice and dirty snow and walked into the rink.

Soon, we were settled in the locker room, dressing cautiously; a feeling of nervousness sank into out stomachs painfully as we sat there, anticipating the game. It was an important game: the section semi-finals. Everyone was worried, despite their efforts to hide it, and the captains soon shouted at everyone to settle down and concentrate. The locker room quieted; the feeling of tension increased as my teammates cast their eyes downwards in an attempt to concentrate -- or at least feign it.

My eyes, however, were distracted. I didn�t look down; instead, I looked over at a teammate of mine, a tall dark-haired girl named Whitney. She was frowning, looking down at her crumpled hockey bag with a serious gaze. This game is more important to Whitney than any of us, I realized, watching her pensively. I knew that it was weighing more heavily on her than anyone else to do well during the upcoming game. Earlier in the season, our entire team had learned that Whitney�s mother was in the hospital because of cancer, and as the season went on, it grew progressively worse. Now it was the final game of the season, and Whitney�s mother was teetering on the brink of life and death -- it was likely that this would be the last game Whitney�s mother would ever hear about. We better win, then, I thought, mustering up a bit of confidence to hang onto. For her mother, if nothing else.

Whitney looked up abruptly and by sheer chance, our eyes met. I offered her a tentative smile; she frowned and looked away. Briefly, I was offended; then I simply sighed. I should have expected it, whispered a reprimand from my mind, She isn�t in any mood to deal with me. It isn�t as if I have spoken to her more than a few times during the season anyway... After learning about Whitney�s mother at the beginning of the season, I hadn�t made any move to talk to her about it. Though the empathetic part of me wanted to talk to her about it, my nervousness had kept me away; I left the comforting up to the people that were actually friends with Whitney.

Soon, our coach entered the locker room and my attention was torn away from Whitney and onto the upcoming game. It was important, after all; if we won this game, our season would continue, but it would end if we lost. As our team filed slowly out of the locker room and towards the ice, I looked briefly at Whitney; if we win this game, her mother can die knowing that her daughter won, I mused, desperately trying to ignore the pang of worry that I felt as I did so. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the ice, my hands clenched inside my gloves. All I need to worry about is the game, I convinced myself; there�s no need for anything else. I barely know Whitney anyway.

The game went by surprisingly fast. Maybe it was simply my pessimism, but I knew from the first whistle that we were outmatched; as the game went on and the score tallied against us, my heart sank. Our season is over, was my initial reaction as the other team scored their fifth and final goal at the end of the third period. Then, as an afterthought, We let Whitney�s mom down. I let her down...

After the devastating loss, we drifted slowly off the ice; I was one of the last, walking into the locker room with my head held high but my shoulders slumped in defeat. All around me, my teammates were in various stages of melancholy; we had lost; our season was finished. I looked down at the ground, unwilling to look into the faces of the people who were now my former teammates.

A stick clattered to the floor harshly and I snapped my head back up. Whitney was standing up, her hair matted with sweat and her eyes damp with tears. She was glaring at another teammate of ours, an older girl named Heather, who was sitting across from her and glaring at her forcefully.

�You don�t have to be such a bitch, Whitney!� Heather snapped spitefully, looking as if she was on the verge of standing up. �It�s not like I said anything to you!�

I backed away nervously; should I interfere?, I wondered, my eyes darting back and forth between the two girls. If I tried, would it help? My stomach clenched fearfully at the idea.

�Oh, yeah, you think that I didn�t work?� was Whitney�s bitter response, �Is that what you�re trying to say?!� Whitney�s face was dark with anger, an expression uncharacteristic of her.

I felt the tension mounting in the small locker room, and foolishly, I thought that this would be a good time to try and stop the growing fight. �You guys, really--�

�Shut up, Palmer!� Whitney snapped without looking at me, and I faltered immediately, opting not to say anymore as I sat hurriedly on the bench. Instead, I warily watched the fight grow from a distance.

Whitney glared at Heather, her eyes narrowed and filled with venom. �I tried! I did my best out there, Heather Connely, and you have NO RIGHT to be blaming me for losing this game! My mom is DYING! This the last game she�ll ever HEAR ABOUT! How dare you say I didn�t try?!�

Shocked silence filled the locker room as the full effect of Whitney�s response diffused into the air. Heather threw her helmet to the ground and stormed out of the room in a fervor; no one followed her. Whitney, who was standing up and glaring at the spot where Heather had been seated, then collapsed onto the wooden bench and buried her face into her hands. Her shaking shoulders made it obvious that she was crying.

Immediately, three girls clamored around her, hugging her and crying with her and telling her that it would all be okay. The chatter in the room started up again, distressed voices mixed with worried ones filling the air. The tension had broken.

I stared blankly at my hands, unable to fully comprehend what had just happened. So this is what death does to people, I thought as my eyes began to water. So this is how it hurts. My vision blurred as I thought of how I had avoided Whitney -- because I was afraid, I thought bitterly, because I didn�t understand -- and now I couldn�t do anything to help Whitney when she was so obviously in need of assistance. Helplessness overwhelmed me and, barely aware of it, I started to cry.

Warm, wet tears slid down my cheeks as I sat on the bench, my face hidden in the fold of my arms. Time seemed to go by slowly as I thought about everything that had happened during the season; If only we had won, I speculated. I added belatedly, If only Whitney�s mother weren�t dying...

I stayed that way for what seemed like a remarkably short time in retrospect, especially since the mere minutes I spent crying had felt like hours. Soon, I composed myself enough to pack my bag and leave the room. As I walked outside towards the bus, I couldn�t help but glance down at the flattened brown grass at the side of the sidewalk. It waved bleakly in the wind, showing no resistance to being blown about, and suddenly, I smiled despite myself, feeling as if my emotions had been drained out of me. The poor grass, I thought, also noticing the blades that were stuck unwillingly in the mud; it�s dead too, isn�t it? I wonder if this is how Whitney�s mother feels.

Then I frowned, my thoughtful mood fading, and I looked away from the grass. Memories of the locker room, of how desperately upset Whitney was, came to me. That is what death is like, isn�t it? I contemplated as I walked slowly towards the large yellow school bus. I don�t like it, but... maybe if I try, I can learn how to understand it.

I walked onto the bus and sat down in my seat, all but ignoring the chattering voices around me. Whitney was in the back, looking composed again and accepting all well-wishers with a detached sense of kindliness. I didn�t look back at her or ask her anything, but somehow I didn�t feel the need to. In a strange way, I felt like I could relate to her, because we both shared the same feelings of absolute helplessness when it came to coping with death. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that death wasn�t finished with me just yet.