I'm sorry I haven't thought much about you, darlin'. Between your little brother being a pest and a pox and a trouble, and your little sister being absorbingly adorable, and my worries and fears about my surgery I've been a little preoccupied.
I know, I know. I'm sorry. I know that's not right. Especially now; fourteen is a hard age, the real beginning of the time you would have spent fighting for attention, fighting to become your own woman instead of a child, or an appendage of your parents. You would want to know that your dad was minding you, but not too much. Parenting you would have been like doing good tactical reconnaissance; being there, constantly alert to the slightest of changes, while somehow never being visible.
Instead I see you as the young woman you could have but never will become, the daughter I had but will never have.
And I grieve for you as the past I will always lose, as the future I will never have.
Today I will be too busy, too worried, and too frightened to think much about you, and for that I will grieve as well.
But I will think of you, if only for a moment. I promise. I won't forget you.
My daughter, my dear, my lost one. Today I will mourn for you, again, dust and ashes these fourteen years.
Bryn Rose Gellar March 1, 2002 - March 2, 2002