no (- - - ) –a word not easily classified into one of the eight parts of speech, so the meaning of it is easier to understand than the definition itself, which is okay because meaning is what is important anyway, but what do you do when the understanding isn’t there when the word is? I just don’t know (verb; also a homophone of no) what you’d do in that case; or what you do after that case, when there aren’t any words and you just can’t find meaning for no or know or anything else.

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This is a story that’s more poetry than straight-up prose, but more truth than made-up story. And even though it’s written for one girl in particular, I think anyone who reads it could recognize it.
Maybe from their own life, maybe from the life of someone they know. Maybe because they’re in the middle of it now or maybe because they’re remembering it.

I just hope that it finds its way where it’s needed.

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Once, there was a girl. 

She grew up with grass stained knees and muddy toes and stardust eyes. With tangled hair and a breathless laugh and windblown dreams.

She grew up beautiful.

She grew up slow.

A day came, then. A day that was one of those days, the ones that we would dread with all our might, if we knew they were coming. That day, the girl grew up a lot, and quickly, and the stardust in her eyes learned the darkness of a night of a new moon.

But it was still there. The grass stained knees and muddy toes, the stardust eyes and tangled hair and breathless laugh. The windblown dreams.

And for a while, the girl grew up slow. She grew up beautiful.

But another day came. Another one of those days; of growing up too much, too fast. A nightmare too much like the first; the breaking and crying and hurting too much the same. And her breathless laugh learned the burn of tears, of heart-sounds too deep for words.

But it was still there. The grass stained knees and muddy toes, the stardust eyes and tangled hair and breathless laugh. The windblown dreams.

And for a while longer, the girl grew up slow. She grew up beautiful. And I am glad she didn’t know of the next day coming— the bad one, the worst one of those days.

But I wish I had known. I do, along with many, many others, because we love her. Some of us knew her a lot and some of us knew her only a little, but everyone saw it. Saw her beautiful. Saw the grass stains and the mud and the stardust. Saw the tangles and the laughter and the dreams. And if we had known that day was coming we would have ended the world to stop it from dawning.

We didn’t know, though. It was one of those days and so we didn’t know and neither did she and the day broke over her red and raw and terrible.

And hearts broke. Hearts broke, and hands tightened in rage, and lips bit themselves raw with helplessness. White knuckles shook with too-big sorrow, and voices choked on prayers whispered without knowing what words they said.

We want to tell her, it will be okay. We want to tell her our own stories of those days, to reassure her that the end will be a happily ever after somehow. But how can we find words? How can anyone, when the words that will automatically give that reassurance don’t exist in any language we know except time?

God. Dear God. Give her peace. Give her justice. Give her our love.

Give her Your love most of all.

And give it soon. She is the girl with the grass stained knees, the muddy toes, and the stardust eyes. She is the girl with the tangled hair and breathless laugh and windblown dreams. She is the girl full of love and loved by many. And she is so. much. more.