Trixy
Her name was Patricia but everybody called her Trixy. She was only 16 when she died. Trixy was the second of four children. With a beautiful pale face as innocent as a white rose she was full of life and hope. But her life was nipped in the bud. She had just started going out with a boyfriend when doctors deliverd the fatal blow. Trixy was taken to hospital with cancer. As if it was not enough to be on her deathbed, her father announced that he was divorcing her mother, because he met a woman who worked in his estate agent’s office. He lived with her mother only as long as there was no better partner available. The shock of divorce weighed heavier for her mother. Trixy was destined to die alone.
I was devastated when I heard of her death. I remember her playing with her brothers and sister. I still see her in my mind’s eye, building the traditional gingerbread house for Christmas. I don’t know why she is committed to my memory and knock persistently on the door. There is no apparent reason I am aware of, apart from her innocence. Trixy, don’t despair if the doors are closed. I have opened the window.

Jamshid
Bremen, 01 May 2008