I remember coming downstairs that morning,

my mom solemnly crying,

holding the newspaper article,

she would save them all.

I remember the terror in his face,

as he heard the words I spoke,

and the tears running down his face.

I cried to him,

“She died.  She was stabbed.”

I remember the panic and horror

around school that day,

the confusion among parents and students.

We were only seven years old.


I remember the funeral,

the photos of her with her sister,

her parents talking about her loveliness,

and my dad crying for the first time.

I remember the talks that followed,

about death and permanence,

the note I wrote to her,

hoping her angel would read it.

I remember her smile and her warm laugh.

I remember her hugs.

I remember her tolerance for my silly jokes.

I remember her as my favorite teacher.