The truth is, there are things I want to say, fingers I want to point, and agony I would like to unload... but none of that will change what has happened, and none of that will right what has gone wrong in this world.
All that I really need to say is that she is gone. The bright eyes and hopeful smile of the daughter we thought was to be our own have dissolved through an unsettling mist of heartache and confusion.
Every time I come across things of Akemi's that remain-- a picture she drew for me, a letter she wrote, another stretched out sock without a match, I find a flurry of unanswered questions seeping from where I have tried to cover my scars. I would sure like to know God's purpose in all of this. Of letting Akemi open herself up to us, and ourselves to her, just to allow it to end in yet another heartbreak for a little girl who has already been through too much. What part does this have in the big scheme of what we are doing and who we are becoming? Actually, I would like to pound on the doors of Heaven and scream and yell until these answers are explained to me, because I don't like being patient, especially when it hurts.
My girls have written her letters. Excitedly telling about plans they have made, reminders of secrets they have shared, and news of the baby brother she was so excited to meet. Letters I have tucked away from sight because I don't know how to explain to them that they won't get to her. I don't know how to explain anything, because the continued twists and turns have been so breathtaking, so discouraging, and so utterly confusing, sometimes I can only throw up my hands.
She was loved. She was cherished. She is missed.
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