Devastation is not accompanied by a swelling musical score.  The lights do not dim.  It is delivered not through the somber lips of grandfatherly concern.  It lays in wait within the Trojan horse of casual conversation.  So well concealed that a victim smiles into its benevolent face even as a fearsome blade is thrust deep into his solar plexus.  One wrenching twist and the dagger of fate retreats with another heart. 

Go ahead.  Notch your post.  You got me good, you old devil, you.  It’s a victory worth savoring.  For the next time you would come calling, I’ll be a little harder.  A little less trusting.  A little less me. 

And, really, where’s the sport in that?

I am not left bitter.  I do not shake my fist at the heavens and curse the cruel ruse.  Perhaps the inherent futility robs me of the ambition.  Perhaps I deny the one who would hear it.  I long for rage.  I long for anything to fill the fresh hollow where hope had only so recently lain.  Even the moments of crushing sadness which accompany the first notes of a poignant song or a glance at those more fortunate.  Watching two at play, knowing one will be forever missing.

Who would you have been?  Would your little nose have sloped upwards at the tip like your mother’s?  Would I have seen the face of my father in your profile?  What shape would your voice have taken when you told me you loved me as your smooth forehead rested upon my own contented brow? 

You were daddy’s little girl.  I just know it.  I saw your heart.

Though we can’t meet in this world, the sun will not rise upon a day that I don’t think of you and dream.  Your echo forever audible beyond a silent existence.  Your name will be known even if you cannot be.  I am so very sorry, my little Cassidy Hope.  I will never forget you.