The city had crept on the gracious old house making it out of place among the bustling businesses. One blistering afternoon the streets were cordoned off and the neighborhood nearly impassable. The parking lot at the funeral home was packed. Crowds of people in black pressed up to the doors unable to gain entry. Speakers broadcast sad church music. Even to a young child it was obvious this was a sad occasion.

Mother and Grandma had us play quietly indoors rather than our usual romping on the large porch. My questions about the goings on across the street were brushed off. Mother and Grandma settled at the dining table for afternoon coffee after Barbie and Billy had been put down for a nap. Determined to learn what was going on, I stretched out on the cool hardwood floors near enough to follow the conversation. With my back to the dining table, I hummed as I pretended play, then feigned sleep.

Soon enough, the low talk turned to the events across the street. It turns out, the funeral was for a sixteen-year-old girl. Her boyfriend had stabbed and mutilated her when she attempted to break off with him. In my desperation to learn more, I forgot my stealthy plan to eavesdrop quietly. I sat up and and barraged the coffee drinkers with excited questions. A scolding broke the conversation up and I learned no more.

I’ve recalled that conversation and wondered about that poor girl many times over the years. I was young enough at the time that she was no more real to me than a television program. More than sixty years later, I am thinking of that girl who will be forever sixteen.