Progeria

It was raining the day they told me he died. But by that day he'd been gone for well over a week. So for all I know, the day he went was sunny. Perhaps it was bright, and the air was warm and not a cloud was in the sky. Maybe that day was perfect. Maybe nature rejoiced in the newness of spring and the gentle March breezes and the tiny pink buds on our tulip tree. Maybe I made dinner and I went for a walk and the frogs and crickets sang at dusk. I imagine I may have been happy, but I cannot be sure because I do not even know the exact day that he died. I imagine many were happy that day because they did not know, like I, could not know, that such a small piece of the world was missing. I wonder if he'd have remembered me the way I remember him. For I am not unique as he was. I am normal, unmemorable, like everyone else. Our lives just crossed for a year, but he is easily someone you do not forget. I cry for him now, for the things that he'll miss; for a life lived so little, for a lifetime so short. I hope that though he was small, the life that he lived was big. I hope that there were people in his life unlike me. People who didn't float in and fade out. I hope that there were people who loved him; who made sure he wasn't lost in a world so much larger than he. I hope there were people who made even his short life a full one. I wish I had known not days after the fact that this someone so special was gone. I wish I could shake the sadness I feel for this someone I hardly knew. I wish I could say that on the day I found out he died it didn't seem right that it rained.
I wish I knew why and didn't feel it unfair, that though he grew old-- he will never grow up.