Her bed is soft and warm, like a newborn kitten's stomach. Her bedclothes are a deep Gryffindor scarlet, and the drapery is Chinese red trimmed with gold the color of Rapunzel's hair. The drapes are opened, to let in the light coming from the window.
Her face is lit up by that light. Her cinnamon brown eyes reflect that light, giving them an almost heavenly glow. Those eyes are wide, and open. They question; they answer. They respond. Her personality is in her eyes – her loving manner, her mischievous nature, her joy.
Even now, her eyes are alight. Even now, in all of this, her eyes still have the happiness of the world, the optimistic thought that this will all fade away soon.
My own eyes, I know, are filled with sorrow. I am not like her – indeed, I only aspire to be. I cannot see the pain and treat it with a smile; I must take it and carry it with me always. I cannot believe that everything will be right when everything is already so wrong.
She is my idol, my heroine. She is the one that I strive to be, that I long to be. The one I admire, the one I honor. She is the one that I will forever be in awe of.
I run my hands through her russet red hair, brushing it away from her face. The light gives it streaks of gold, as if she is an angel. Her hair is soft, and feels good to touch. It's not long; it only goes down to her shoulders. But she wears her auburn crown like a mane, proudly and joyfully. I brush a lock away from her face.
We are opposites in this as well – my own hair is black as a raven's feathers, the color of the midnight sky. It isn't smooth, as hers is; it is rather coarse, cut roughly and in haste. Jagged ends poke out here and there. Nor does it lie flat as hers does; it spikes up in odd places, making many wonder if I own a comb.
I touch her face. Her creamy skin is as smooth as a baby's. Freckles are sprinkled over her nose and cheeks, making her look younger and more playful. It is heaven to run my hands over her satin skin, feeling her.
Her pajamas hang on her. She's lost so much weight; she is merely a skeleton now. Her spirit is strong, but her body is slowly going, and I do not know if I can take it.
We've been through so much together – love, war, and all that's in between. She was the first and only girl I've ever kissed, the only girl I made love to, the only girl I loved. I felt as though I belonged with her, that if I were with her all would be right in the world.
Nothing could ever change the way I feel about her – our separation when I went to war only increased my love for her. When she took ill, I wanted to rush to her aid, but she wouldn't let me. Her words still ring in my mind: "Others need you more than I do."
And so I stayed, missing precious time with her. She has never complained, and has told me she was proud of me for doing it. I feel, however, that I should have been here, and I could have been here. The guilt is eating me up inside.
I returned only when I learned she had just a few days left. I returned to a much different girl physically than the one I had left. She had always been up for anything, but now she had to spend countless hours resting. She could not do what she always used to. I loved her in spite of this, or maybe I loved her even more because of it.
Ignoring her doctor's words, she pressed on. She is sitting with me now, over a month after I learned she was going to go soon. I wake up every morning knowing that this day might be her last, and trying to prepare myself. But can I ever prepare myself for something like this? I don't know if I can live without her, or if it is even worth trying to.
She looks up at me, her beautiful eyes calm and tranquil. She reached out her hand, and I leaned closer to her. She whispered three words to me. "I love you."
And then, she closed her eyes.
Today, a great person died. At two eleven p.m., Virginia Elizabeth Weasley Potter left this earth, leaving those of us still here only to cry over her passing.
Today, the person who changed this world has left this world. Today, this person is gone. Today, we are alone.
I don't know what I will do, or where I will be without her. She was my everything, and now she is gone.
Her mark remains on us all. We were all changed and affected by this woman, and we are each a better person for having known her.
I have been told not to cry, for she is not really dead. "She lives inside you," they say, trying to comfort me. I know that she lives, not only inside of me, but all around me, but it does not help. No longer will I wake up to her smiling face. No longer will I see those chocolate brown eyes. No longer will I be able to encircle her with my arms.
Perhaps her fire in my heart will burn forever. Perhaps, in a way, she will live on inside us all. But I wish beyond wish that she could have lived forever. There have been more impossible thoughts. Yet she is gone, and I must accept, however hard it may be.
Ginny left us with love and joy and happiness. She left us wanting to be a better person.