I had only met her once and, even then, I spent more time with the adults than I did speaking with her. She had already been through a bout of treatments and the disease was in remission. From what I recall, everyone was relieved and happy. I overheard the father talking to Ken's mom, preparing a slideshow night in celebration of the tremendous feat his daughter had accomplished.

I had only met her once yet, when I walked into the room, her pictures everywhere, pained faces in every corner, and a slideshow playing in the back corner, that one memory was brought back and I felt, for a brief moment, that I somehow knew her better. Rather, I knew what kind of person she was from the reactions of everyone around me and it dawned upon me just what the world has really lost.

I spoke to the family briefly but found myself floundering for conversation with the brother. We shifted away from each other uncomfortably. I turned to the slideshow, and saw a picture of a little girl wearing a life jacket far too big for her body. I chuckled a bit, then realized that I was crying. I didn't want to be there any longer; the coffin was too small, the pain of everyone too real. Death thwarts us all; we can only meet it with silence and the foolish hope that flowers, or sympathic glances, will somehow fill the void that death creates.