21

She would be 21 this year, she noted. I wonder how she'd be?

There was a long silence and when she spoke again, there was a catch in her voice.

When she heard the news, a crevice began in your mother's heart that deepened with every passing week. The sides are dark and jagged with sharp rocks. At the bottom is a salty river of tears.

Beautiful days in the month of flowers are the most difficult.

At 11, you were a serious student, a kickball champion and a help-mate to your mother. By 21, you may have remade yourself several times over. But you would be proud of your mother's new career, and you might admire the scholarly achievement of your sister, although you would have earned several of your own by then.

It was not your choice to leave, and we would have stopped fate if that were possible. There is still an empty seat at every dinner table, and in every reunion photo. But most of all, we miss you today, and wish you could stand beside us as we look at the ferns and hostas in your mothers garden.