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.