Wednesday evening

Freshman year I spent ten hours a week in the same classroom with her. We talked music and English, philosophy and art, and theater. She smiled a lot. Laughed. Told me my hair looked cute when I got it cut and teased me about my serious approach to school.

One day in theater class we watched a film about the Atlantic slave trade and the middle passage. Mid-way through the class period she left the room, sobbing. "I'm sorry," she said later. "I'm sorry. I just . . . couldn't."

I saw her a few times last term. We passed each other on the way to classes and I waylaid her with a hug. She was planning a trip to another school for her ASL major. She told me German was easy to learn. We smiled and wished each other luck and said goodbye, drifting apart through the crowds of students.

Three weeks ago, she was in a car accident. They said she'd be back next fall. I thought she was getting better; or least not any worse.

For three weeks I've been following her progress, waiting for her to wake up and respond and smile. But then today, this afternoon, she died. And now it's my turn weep.

I miss you.