Dear Richenda: GOODBYE and THANK YOU A.M. Doshisha International Jr/Sr High School, Kyoto, Japan

I can't remember exactly when, but my memory takes me on excursion to some years back to the days I had lived my early teens in England. England is one of the three countries that make Britain. Let me inform you very briefly with some information on where the episode takes place, and an interesting piece of general knowledge. Turning around a globe, you would find British Isles on the other side of the Earth. Just like Japan, British Isles is situated in the Northern Hemisphere. British Isles consists of Republic of Ireland and Great Britain. Great Britain consists of Northern Ireland, England, Scotland and Wales. This took place in England. It must have been in late January, because Katie and I huddled together for warmth and our breaths were as white as the deepest fog. Winter dwelled far too long in this country. Towards November it already started to get chilly. However, the air of Christmas warmed up the streets in each town, church to illuminations. Each home heated up and family members gathered more often indoors. Evening dinner plates held hot meals to please people's appetite that naturally increased as it became colder. Celebrations and parties were everywhere. People sure knew how to enjoy the long periods of cold and darkness. After the Christmas booze followed by fancy New Year's climax, people returned to work filled with energy, life and humbleness. Although the frost still remained outside on the silver lawns and grassfields, and icicles still hung transparent along the window panels, time went forth only now to discover the melting snowmen and invisible buds of crocuses. It was around this time of year. Girls have returned back to school, plump with Christmas turkey and puddings. Everyone storytold their happiest moments of the holiday. The older girls were practising for the show auditions due to have started in early February. Outside the windows, it was still dark and grey, cold and chilly. On one Friday - everyone loved Friday's because it marked the beginning of weekends - I carried myself to Studio II and practised some arpeggios on my cello repetitively till my parents came to pick me up. I felt the need to improve more. The floor had been re-varnished only a week ago, and the odour still had not left the floor. Someone knocked the heavy, wooden door so I casually asked the knocker to make entrance. A little black head, to my surprise, popped in bouncily and the black dreadlocks dangled perpendicularly. It was Richenda Crabbe.

"Eugh! It smells in here!" she giggled mischievously as she always did. Richenda was a black girl, about four years younger than me, and was very small, about two-thirds of my present height, and very slim. It was a wonder how her knobbly knees and elbows, with music and rhythm, became graceful curves and arches. From that miniature figure endlessly poured cheerfulness and energy. Her parents lived in the City (Central London), so she had been boarding in the school since the age of about five. She said she missed her parents, but never showed it, except for some temporary tantrums which occurred only when she was sleepy. There was no one in the school that didn't know Richenda. How could anyone miss a girl that appeared anywhere and at any time? "I can only see your head, Richenda. Would you like to come in?" She nodded and her coarse dreadlocks flopped to the front. She had expected me to say it. At that time, she was wearing her bright red modern leotard. Her skin, as black as ebony, clashed severely against the illuminous red and it was a dazzling tone to my eyes that was used to the dull tone of late-Autumn. She was obviously waiting for her lesson that still had another hour or so to go before the commencement time. It was just like her to get ready for dance classes way too early. She left the room quickly as if to have caught something more interesting with one of her senses. Probably the smell, because it was teatime. That was the way she appeared and disappeared. She would come near if she found things curious and full of wonders. She must have been curious to know who could possibly have been playing arpeggios after school in a studio. She would leave if the mystery has been solved, and goes on to the next, and so on. Even at class times, I heard teachers talk about Richenda's competitive nature to solve an arithmetic problem, and how that influenced other children to find arithmetic more fun. However, if Richenda were bored, she would be out of the classroom altogether. I remember she came all by herself to the senior physics laboratory, one day, asking for a pair of scissors. Obviously, a pair of scissors was the best excuse Richenda could have come up with that moment. She had said her former teacher needed it. That was quite amazing. Laughing, Dr. Asquith had handed her a pair of scissors and asked one of our classes to go back with her to her classroom. Really, one could write a series on 'Adventures of Richenda Crabbe'.

Weekends always rush through without you noticing. Mondays always seemed to arrive just too swiftly on its way, but they seem to proceed much slower. I didn't, though, expect it to go as slowly as the day the shocking news spread like plague through the school. It was like any morning. Cold but warm in classrooms. Girls drew pictures on foggy windows with their fingertips until the teacher came. Seated, taken register and off to the first class. School assemblies were held every Tuesday morning after the first class, but only that Monday we had to urgently gather in Studio I after the first lesson. I did not realise much but all the boarders seemed gloomy and rather given to looking on the black side, but they did not mouth any words so specifically as we still wondered what the assembly was about. Some girls were light-heartedly humming the audition songs - they were not yet polluted by the unspeakably perturbing episode. In Studio I, Ms. Jaffari, the Housemistress was there, too with uninflected look on her face. The jam of girls seated cross-legged on the cold amber coloured floor and anticipated for the entry of Mrs. Smit, the Headmistress. Mrs. Smit was an old lady with fluffy white hair, and made appearance crookedly and more ungainly than usual. We were not required to sing any hymns that morning. "Good morning, ladies." She cleared her voice, and waited for our monotonous "Good morning, Mrs. Smit" reply from the girls. "Thank you for gathering here today. You must have all figured out that there is some important announcement or other to make this morning. And so I bring news before you all. It is very sudden and extremely heartaching, but I shall inform you on Richenda Crabbe's death." With that, the teachers in front row revealed upsetting expression as to relieve some of their feelings they had to hold back through first period. The girls including me were stuck for words, the silence that settled in the studio seemed like the Time had stopped flowing only that very moment. Some girls exchanged looks with the girl sitting next to her to inquire what they have heard was true. Some girls stared at the wooden floor without reality. Her giggles echoed around my head. Richenda in her bright red leotard repetitively appeared in my head as if to reassure that the image I imagined were something I had actually seen a few days ago. How could this possibly be? How is it possible that one afternoon, a girl is filled with her incurably high spirit, ready to take her dance lessons, then the next minute she falls immobile, silent and cold? I even started to wonder if it was just a nightmare altogether. Mrs. Smit did not walk so crookedly, after all. It was my fixed image of her, and it came out exaggerated in my dream. Consequently, this assembly could not have been real. I could not have been really sitting down in my brown uniform, and sinking down into the stinky studio floor feeling devastated. Obviously, Richenda could not have been dead, and everyone around me were just images. However, as if to seize me back from this unconsciously created nonsense of mine to the reality, someone broke the silence. I was not asleep, but I had been awaken. It gave me cold shudders and shivers. Everyone concentrated on what came out of Mrs. Smit's wrinkled mouth.

"We all know Richenda had some very heavy asthma problems, do we not." Mrs. Smit continued as she broke the silence. I did not know Richenda had asthma problems, it was new to me. "On Friday night, she was so very excited and jolly. The girls that attended the tap class would know, I'm sure. She beamed with pride to have mastered the new steps before anyone else. On Saturday night, when she had come back from being taken to watch a film, she was filled with satisfaction. Past midnight, she called out for Mrs. Jaffari. She had some breathing problems. She sweated extraordinarily, and her response was late and clumsy. Ambulance was called, and she was immediately taken to hospital, but it was too late. Richenda took her breath away and had passed away. Before the dawn." Never have I felt the studio so dull and oppressed with melancholy, dense air. No one exchanged eye contacts or whispered. I'm sure some were praying what they were listening were just a bad lie, or some kind of soap opera episode that was told by Mrs. Smit. I could not catch everything, and I was cramming the words of Mrs. Smit into my head without understanding the meaning of them. My brain was full like it nearly burst; yet my heart felt empty, like the tin-man from Wizard of Oz. I was not an extremely good friend of Richenda, in fact I was one of the people that loved Richenda being around, and I'm sure Richenda knew me only as a curious Japanese girl. However, I kept reflecting her head popping into Studio II only three days beforehand. Then someone broke the silence. Richenda's classmates started off the sob. It echoed and amplified, and the sad, sorrowful sound caused other pairs of eyes to water. I actually was not an extremely good friend of Richenda's, but I talked to her naturally, whether in the lengthy, seemingly endless lunch queues, in the grassfields, in the playgrounds, dressing rooms outside the studios, or wherever we met. Run-of-the-mill, it was, for her to exist, have life and appear anywhere in the school or town. It never occurred to me that she would suddenly, without any foreword, start climbing up the long staircase up to heaven where finally she would have come face to face with the Being of her faith. Perhaps, it was just like her to do that. Perhaps she had acquired all she needs to know from this world, so she took interest up there. Of course, I could not help but mourn and feel greatly disconsolate, though to be less ambiguous and being more frank, I suppose that I felt more of curiosity, than distress and misery. In my brain burned hundreds of images of Richenda's that only had her laughing, chuckling, singing and dancing, all of which were her unpretentious, natural charms that undisguised parts of her attractive being.

That day, when we returned to our classrooms, we had three minutes of silence. We had statistics class, but neither the teacher nor us felt like meticulously pressing calculator's buttons, and basically being mathematical, so we decided to let our emotions take control until we felt like doing work again. One of the girls in our class volunteered to pray for her. I vaguely remember them but I know that the words were meek and caressing, and it wished Richenda peace above. Katie, my friend, admitted her sorrow of Richenda breathing her last before it was warm and colourful, that she went to her last resting-place in the dark, before the crimson dusk. A few days later, we missed the whole afternoon of the school to attend the commemoration service of Richenda at the nearby church, where we always celebrated Harvest Festival, Easter, and Christmas every year. Most of the girls were willing to attend these church services, but only this time we felt different. We were not carrying our heavy footsteps to celebrate. The roads and avenues seemed more black than usual. It was wet from rain, and cold. I had forgotten my gloves that day, so Katie let me hold her hands with mine. We all walked steadily but gloomily, and as we faced downwards, I'm sure we missed the blackbirds and the morning dew. The service proceeded, but all I remember was Mary Betts, sitting next to me and gently patting my head. My eyes were dry, but red, and hers were soaked with salty tears. Perhaps she was the one who needed to be patted on the head. However, she was too tall for me to reach, and I knew very well that she tended to soothe herself by trying to caress others, so I let her pat my head until she relaxed. In front of me were rows and rows of girls from the school, all mourning in their own ways. I did not lift my head high enough to view the stained glasses and beautiful paintings, but they seemed too bright for me to see anyway.

Mrs. Jaffari stood at the pulpit. She was a lady in late forties with stern face and had wrinkles from overwork. She was beautifully tanned, and matched faded turquoise blue dress which she often wore. She was very slim, but considered herself a little bit fat. She was simply dressed, but very strong-willed, and had burned her spirit to serve as second mothers to many girls, of which ranged ages from five to eighteen. I just knew her because she gave me medicine when I had stomachache, and she drove others and myself to horse riding schools every Tuesday afternoon. I knew Richenda loved her, and Mrs. Jaffari, though strict at times, had dearly loved her, too. Mrs. Jaffari never showed weakness in front of anyone. Even at the service, she showed no red eyes. However, we all knew her heart was as badly damaged as broken trees from storms. Mrs. Jaffari spoke about Richenda, the girl we all remember her as, from the most tedious details to the broadest. Mrs. Jaffari had the power to arouse humour, and laughter among the miserable congregation. "Mrs. Jaffari, I'm hungry!" she would come. But I say "No, Richenda. I just gave you four cream rolls and I say that's enough!" But Richenda, you know, she never gives in. So to finish off the talk I rounded off 'Well, Richenda, dear. If you eat any more cream rolls you'd end up with a big waist like mine!" I expected her to step back, but oh, she is the funniest. She replied, "I don't care as a matter of fact, because you don't have a big waist. But oh, I do suppose I would grow fatter. Oh, Mrs. Jaffari, what would I do if I couldn't stop eating cream rolls and my waist needed a belt as big as the equator? Would you still love me?" Richenda had the power to lighten up your day without trying." Mrs. Jaffari talked on. Many of the episodes were things we could all refer to, or things we could easily imagine. All of a sudden, from the sorrowful congregation came out some laughter and cackles. As I've enjoyed listening to her, I felt that Mrs. Jaffari needed to be reminded that she also had the power to lighten up everyone without them noticing. In my head, I visioned many Richenda's. Mrs. Jaffari changed her tone after she looked around to see some changes in people.

"Richenda Crabbe is one lucky girl. She had more than one place she can call home. She had been loved by everyone. She had been blessed. She had received the finest gifts to make everyone smile. She loved music. She loved art. She loved life, as it was, and she had fulfilled it her way. Her candle had burned out a little too earlier than any one of us here, but it was a beautiful flame she had been burning. She did not pass away surrounded by flowers, but we all know she loved Jack the Frost and all the icicles just as much as she loved daffodils and crocuses. She did not see the dawn, but we all know she had seen even brighter light and beauty after she had closed her eyes. I feel neither misery nor sorrow, but I feel greatly lonely and empty because I miss her dearly. I, and of course everyone mourning for her today, will eventually let this present devastation take flight, and carry on seeking for happiness, but the greatest thing we can all agree on is that we shall keep missing her dearly." Mrs. Jaffari walked down the pulpit and sat at the nearby bench. I found myself being absorbed into her speech. Mrs. Jaffari made Richenda beautiful this way, and implanted this beautiful image of her to us as the last impression of her. She will always remain our memory as a beautiful girl. The memorial service ended with playing out loud, the songs by Michael Jackson, Richenda's favourite singer. The song was 'Earth Song', and I was very dramatic. After this memorial, walking down to the school again, wrapped in scarf and duffel coat, Katie and I held hands again. My hands were warm, though. We walked down to the school again. The same paths and avenues. However, the roads seemed much brighter; perhaps because the rain had stopped and the world was really shining through wetness, but because we felt a little better about everything. My footsteps were lighter, and I was ready to take lessons. I felt that just like Richenda was in love with her life, so would I be. So in love that I should not regret if death had made its way the following day. I would make my life and my world fall in love with me, too. By listening to Mrs. Jaffari I felt that events or incidents could turn out to be misfortunate, sorrowful, or beautiful and happy ending, depending on how you take them in. I cannot deny that deaths are always painful and cruel, with an unreasonable hidden theory that good people always die fast. However, I believe that one feels that way because they loved that person, and because one knows and feels, and understands that no matter how hard and strenuous life can sometimes be, one loves life.

I might as well make known, that Richenda had not only let me realise the greatness of life. That came after she was gone. She actually taught me many great lessons while present in this world. I think this just has to be known. Firstly, she said that however moody I may be, I must always keep laughing because there are too many worries in this life that I'd miss out some fun if I always stood looking perplexed. Secondly, "beauty is only skin deep", she would have chanted now and then. I cannot believe this came out of a girl who still was under ten. She said everyone was pretty. She said my eyes were rather a strange looking pair, but said they were beautiful. She also always taught me to keep singing and dancing and grooving with life. Admitting she was a party-lover, her best places were dance floors, studios and home. She said for my case, that I must sing while reading books because I work too much! Richenda was, indeed, always laughing and singing. I have certainly been influenced. I love singing and dancing now! If only Richenda could listen to my laughs and look at my dances! Importance of life is a heavy and rather a deep theme. Ironically enough, for me who had not experienced someone of my acquaintance die since I was a toddler; it was only and truly through Richenda's death that I was reminded of the precious gift of life. However, it is actually quite simple. Fulfil it while you have it, and do not stand worrying about making mistakes, but just go for it. In the end, you always end up laughing anyway. Richenda will never be forgotten, though I do not think of her in my daily life much. She is a great teacher for letting me find life thankful and meaningful.

Mikami, Akina (2000). Dear Richenda: GOODBYE and THANK YOU. Retrieved March 25, 2001, from the Doshisha International Jr/Sr High School web site: http://www.intnl.doshisha.ac.jp/projects/3sa/2000/memoir/sa1/a19-akina.html

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