We called her Sakura, for the cherry blossom. Sakura is a thing of beauty that does not, and cannot last, longer than a short time. But we meet its brief time in this world with joy and not sorrow.
Not surprisingly, I guess, thinking about her this way doesn’t make it hurt any less.
This is no epic tragedy. There are no scoundrels or blackguards here. No might-have-beens or woeful choices. No one to blame – not even ourselves as much as we have tried. It was just an indifferent shuffling of chromosomes that determined that she should never live.
So why am I writing this? To prove that she existed? We have the papers to prove that, and a tiny urn in the bedroom holding that part of her ashes I could not bear to give to the sea. To let others know that they are not alone? Why? I cannot offer them any comfort, or pretend it is there to be had.
Maybe we just want to know why we miss so much someone we never knew.
All we know is she was beautiful.