In Passing

There was this girl. We were young together, she more so than I.  I haven't seen or thought of her in years, and I never thought to notice her much then.  But I remember her face.  I remember the shape and shade of her hair.  I remember the shining of her eyes, and the crescent moon of her smile.
I have not seen her in several years, and then only in passing.  Thought of her have never crossed my mind.  If you asked me how I knew her, I could not tell you.  I never knew her last name, or her favorite song, or whether she preferred her tea hot or cold.  I never knew if her mother was kind but sometimes sharp with her words, or if her father still tickled her like he did when she was three.  I don't know if she ever kissed a boy out in the senior parking lot, when the teachers weren't looking for them.  I don't even know her last name.

I do not know if she texted while she was driving.  I don't know if, frustrated by the nearness of forbidden fruit, she had been drinking with her friends this weekend.  I don't know if the boy, perhaps the one who had held her tight the last time she cried, was trying to show her some funny picture on his ipod.  I don't know if, for just one insignificant, happy, forever moment, your eyes were forced tightly closed by largeness of her laughter.

But I know that she is dead.

I know that her mother sees no reason for living anymore.

I know that her abuelo has laid in bed, curled upon himself, since the night it happened.

And I know that, for some reason, some indefinable deeper-than-science reason--I know I am grieving you, too.

I'll miss you, Jetselli.