— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (via derbygirl, vodkaphonics, maryreblogs)

It was ninth grade English class, and I was at the height of my shyness. Our assignment was simply to recite a poem (and bonus points were awarded for each line memorized.)

I chose Longfellow’s 40-liner “The Day is Done,” which I can still fully recite almost 10 years later. After the recitation, we were asked to provide some background on the author. Nothing too deep, just the whats, wheres and whens of the author’s life, most likely taken straight from Wikipedia.

As epoch circumstances would have it, Longfellow’s first wife would die after a miscarriage and his second would die tragically in a fire, leading to his depression and a perpetual writer’s block.

I spoke quietly and quickly, looking up occasionally from my lined notecards, until this very point.

Anxiety caught the best of me and upon announcing Frances’ death, I began to laugh.  A lot.

You see I have what my dad refers to as funeral humor.  It is the inability to control unrequited laughter in darker settings.

It is also a paternal trait.

Promptly realizing my fit of hysteria was inappropriate and ungarnered, my skin began to flush.  I wrapped up the presentation, slumped off to my chair and sat down wishing to fade into the sterile gray background.

Upon returning home that day I imagine the words “I want to die” were repeated.

It was just another day of high school