Easter Sunday

Glass shattered in the street, tire marks, chunks of metal. It felt like I could hear the tires screech and like I could feel the glass under my feet. We stood in silence for an hour. Quiet sobs, but no words. The pastor from her church chose the memorial over the Easter service. He said words that I can’t remember. All I can remember is the warmth of the embraces we all shared and the tear streaked cheeks around me. Her pastor asked us to join hands and pray with him, at the end of the prayer he asked us to all call out to her and say her name and tell her we love her. We all tried but our choked up voices couldn’t finish. Why was it so hard to say her name? To talk to her? It didn’t feel right and it still doesn’t. It’s not a name I can just blurt out. It’s one I think about before I say. Sometimes water still rushes to my eyes when I talk about her. 

Nothing has ever been the same. The hallways felt a little wider. My heart feels a little emptier. Her kitten mooshoo is a little lonelier. I don’t know a lot about grieving or death or any of it. But I know nothing will ever be the same. I know Easter will always belong to her. I know Khora deserved a lot more years than seventeen.