Now that you are ashes more than a decade the pain of losing you comes in wondering, this time every year, who you would be if you had ever had the chance to be.
You would be twelve years old this morning.
Would you be still abed, bleary and quiet?
Would you be up early, bright-eyed, chattering and happy and excited?
Would you be our serious little dark-eyed girl? Or would you be our rambunctious and energetic little tomboy? Athletic and fierce? Quiet and thoughtful?
What would you love? People? Pets? The wild? Books? Music?
Would you act with your body in impetuous haste? Or with the patient deliberation of your mind?
Would you be kind? Would you be loving?
Would you still be alive?
For if we learned nothing else, we learned from losing you that there is no tomorrow. Tomorrow is a dream, or a nightmare, or may never come, lost in a wilderness of grief and fear.
There is today, sometimes there is only today, and today is your day, the day you were born and the day you died, twelve years ago today.
We miss you, dearest, and we always will.
Bryn Rose Gellar March 1, 2002 - March 2, 2002