It seems so long ago, for I was much younger when it happened, and I have grown and learned so much since then. I was one of the lucky ones, but not lucky enough to run blindly from the city. I saw many horrific things that day but nothing can erase her from my mind. I had seen her regularly almost every day, but never approached her. On my walk through the city I would pass her standing near her home, by a great stone wall where she stood, observing the bustling city. It was like clockwork. When I passed, she would nod as if she knew me, we had an unspoken understanding. I admired this woman so strong, she always looked so proud. She had skin like porcelain and was always beautifully dressed in silk. We never spoke, and yet her presence comforted me, she was so loyal.

The day the city exploded, I managed to gather myself and run to safety. Among the burning buildings and dying people I saw her. She did not look strong or wise. Her once beautiful porcelain skin was red and burnt and her hair stuck to the open sores. Her silk dress had been torn and it too stuck to her mangled body and she sucked her raw fingers and shook in fear. She looked scared and defeated as she leaned against the stone wall where I had seen her every day, where she once looked confident and wise. Of all the things I saw that day, this image I will never forget. Someone I had perceived to be wise and strong, a source of comfort to me, destroyed by the bomb.

All of the years I saw this woman, I never thought to ask her name. I wish I had so I could remember and honor her death properly. For years after I saw her there, hanging on to life by a single thread, I struggled not knowing what to call her, the woman who had silently comforted me all of those years. It took me this long, but I know who this woman was and what she stands for in my mind. I call her Hiroshima.