Kari was the girl who lived down the street and rode the bus with me in third grade. She and her twin sister, Jesi, were 3 years older than I am. When I was in ninth grade, there was an announcement that a student at school had recently passed away. There was a moment of silence, then I continued on with my day. The next summer I attended a camp with a student who also attended my school named Ester. The following is my reaction to a piece she wrote about Kari and Jesi. She had changed the names in her piece, but I recognized the story as Kari’s. 

I cry for Kari’s sister, who for me, has just died again. Each time I read Ester’s story, the pain never subsides. I cry for Kari, the cheerful girl whose harmless disposition was shattered by life’s cruel ways. Why must the happiest girl loose her twin? Her other half? Especially to God’s ugliest way of death -- cancer.

Then I looked, I had to fine closure for myself, my selfish little self. I scoured the internet, googling names and places, hoping to find evidence to suggest Ester’s story is fiction.

It isn’t.

I find Kari’s grief-stricken, all too honest blog. I cry for her pain, I cry for my pain, I cry for Jesi’s pain, I cry for life’s cruel ways, I cry for everyone and everything.

I read through her posts to find a poor women struggling to come to terms with her daughter’s untimely death – 16 is always too young to die.

Her mother tries to find solace in old photos, memories, therapists, alcohol, sleep, caffeine, travel, new traditions -- even memory trees. I try to find solace in her mother’s relief. If her mother is happy, Kari is happy, and death isn’t so bad. But I don’t find it. It is 18 days past the one year anniversary of young Jesi’s death. The pain persists.

My heart goes out to Liz, Ester, Chris, Alan, Kari, the happy cousins in the photograph, and the cheerful soccer girls who rallied for Jesi. But most of all, my heart goes to all the poor children in the world who had their perfect world shattered like Jesi’s and Kari’s.