On the Possibly Departed

I don't, and probably won't know the truth of her fate, I don't know whether she left us, but I do remember her well. Tall, slim, quiet and shy, I remember her deep orange hair, and an awkward prettiness that grew. But more than the sight of her, and the lack of sound of her, I remember a peculiarity. She was there every day, and then she was not there almost every day. Many I've seen since and suddenly not seen since. Each had their own story, stories that I'll never know. I don't, and probably won't know the truth of their fate. We chattered with amusement, callous or unknowing, when she appeared for a day at a time. A day at a time, two, maybe three times a year for a year-and-half or two. Later I heard a whisper, dread disease, it said, and it all made nasty sense. Moments past midnight I awoke to the horrible understanding that perhaps she wanted only to feel normal for a day. 11th August 2018