One of the most difficult deaths I witnessed in my life was that of 15-year-old Rose. We met when she was 10. I rented a room from her mom and became close friends with both of them. I babysat a lot, and just barely out of college in my early twenties, I felt more like an older sister than an adult in her life. Rose was beautiful and shined very bright. I taught her to knit, and she turned right around and taught her mom. We danced around the house and painted our toenails.
When I moved out to move in with my boyfriend, she and her mom gifted me with three pieces of framed art, one of which was a poem by Rose called “Forget Me Not” about the times we had shared.
On June 28, 2009, she was killed by a drunk driver along with 3 of her friends. Although I helped her mom, a dear friend, as best I could when asked, I came to learn that I had a lot of grief of my own to work with from what felt like such a blow to the natural order of life. Although one could track many things Rose did the last few weeks of her life that said on some level she knew she would not be with us for long, it didn’t balm the pain of it.
