Disclaimer : I don't own the characters , only Matilda's neighbour - can you guess who he is?

Life is long ,

January thirty-first bestowed upon me Matilda. She had huge indigo eyes like saucers and blonde locks like the fluffy down of a baby chick and always smelt of something sweet like maple sugar. I watched as she bought boxes and boxes of bright yellow candy smiles and as she left them someone's doorstep along with a pink card.

I watched as she jumped when she turned around and saw me staring at her from across the street, and as she blushed an adorable shade of red and I noticed how flawless and unmarked her skin was.

She told me it was her neighbour's birthday and she didn't want him to feel forgotten.

I said he was lucky to know her.

She told me he didn't know her.

And I said he was even luckier then.

February fourteenth placed me on her front porch, a bouquet of roses situated in my arms and made my heart beat faster as I waited for her to answer the door. When she did, her saucer eyes grew even wider and her smile would have put the sun to shame.

We spent the next few hours in her room with boxes and boxes of chalky candy hears, packing them into little bags to leave on other peoples' doorsteps.

So they won't be lonely, she told me.

I remembered how it felt to bring joy to another person when an old man shuffled out of his door and saw the red package peering up at him and sat there smiling through his tears.

I remembered how lovely Matilda was when she kissed me and slipped a candy into my mouth.

March twenty-seventh saw the two of us in her kitchen, making pancakes in the morning chill. She blushed a beautiful red when I licked batter off her fingers and whispered that it was ticklish when I said the batter on her cheek tasted even sweeter.

When we were done, she set the table for three, just in case a lone wanderer turned up, led by his nose to us. The pancakes were delicious and I wouldn't have been surprised if he did. And when our lips met in a maple syrup kiss I decided that pancakes were my new favourite food.

I decided that 'matilda' was my new favourite word. And thought. And everything.

April sixteenth dawned with rosy fingers that followed us as we walked the mile from her house to mine. She would occasionally stumble, and I secretly loved it when she did. Because then I had a legitimate reason for holding her close in my arms and feeling her heart beat against my chest.

As we walked she told about the pantheon of gods and goddesses and one of whom who rose each morning to meet her brother. I remembered waking up every day, either of us on each other's porch with something new in our hearts.

I remembered how good baggy sweats and hoodies looked as I watched her flop onto my couch with her cheeks coloured a light pink.

I remembered how wonderful it was to just sit on my bed and listen as the world went by when Matilda crawled next to me and told me to try.

May twelfth was rainy and gray and frowned down on the two of us as we made our way to her house. But she laughed and smiled and danced in the rain with the umbrella, and I danced along with her, and it was lovely.

I thought she was absolutely perfect when she stopped suddenly and crouched next to a small white ball of matted fur with a shaggy tail and a partially chewed off ear, and wrapped it up in her favourite hoodie, the one with the maple leaf that she loved so much.

She held him up close and kissed the quivering pink nose and I watched as she murmured to him, something about finding someone who loves you, even with the world so big.

She told me she named him 'Kumajiro' and was going to take care of him.

I asked if she had the things to take care of him.

She told me she had her heart.

I asked when she had become so beautiful.

June twenty-first brought promises of cool ice-cream, exciting hockey games and news that I never wanted to hear. She called me and told me that she was sick, had to stay home, the doctor said; she was unable to meet me for the hockey game.

I went to her house and she handed me a lump of rock that looked exactly like the earth it had been hewn from, only that it shone in the summer sun. She said it was from her neighbour and it was the most beautiful rock she had ever seen.

We sat at the porch, she in the chair and I by her side with Kumajiro nuzzling into my lap. In the silence she told me that she was sick, she had been sick since January.

I said no, and told her she was going to get better.

She said 'maybe'.

I said 'please'.

July first taught me newfound joy as we sat in her room, eating happy–birthday-pancakes on the bed. Kumajiro sat on her lap and nuzzled her from time to time, begging for bites of the syrupy goodness. Her birthday present lay behind her, a huge jigsaw puzzle that took hours to put together, twinkling stars in the midnight sky with a polar bear howling up at the unreachable stars above. I smiled and kissed her gently, from her lips to her neck and up, and when I pulled away I saw that she was laughing with a smile that shot sparks through her eyes.

I decided then that Matilda's laugh was the most beautiful sound on earth.

I decided then that I would always love her.

She laughed until they became coughs that wracked her delicate frame.

I decided that I would always need her.

August twenty-fourth reminded me how it felt like to cry. The rain ran along the roof, and the wind howled against the windows and my tears dripped down my face and my heart cried silently. Matilda looked pale, paler than usual and her skinny wrists with bones jutting out. She didn't get pancakes in the hospital so I sneaked her some and fed her with my mouth because she couldn't move much for fear of ripping the IV tubes from her arms.

I stared at the white plastic placard at the head of her bed and felt an urge to scratch out her name, because it deserved a much better place.

'Three months,' she whispers. 'Three months is a long time.'

It's not, I whisper back. It's not.

I waited until her eyes fluttered shut, until I saw how immaculate her lashes were against her pale, pale skin.

I wonder if I would ever get a chance to mark her.

I wonder if I deserve to.

September eleventh found me by her bedside, staring blurrily at her. She felt cold to the touch, and I wrap my arms around her, trying desperately to warm her up. I hold her close and whisper softly into her ear, how Kumajiro had grown out his shaggy puppy fur, how her neighbour had started his phosphate business, how the boy holding her was breaking down inside.

She laughed, then. Raspy and tearing up her throat and making her wince in pain.

Shhh, I say and rub away her tears.

She slowly reaches up to rub away mine.

I ask her what I would have left if she goes.

She tells me I'll always have her heart.

And I know that Matilda with the faded red maple boots and the collection of polar bear figurines, Matilda with the obsession over pancakes and maple syrup and ice hockey, Matilda with her love for her neighbours and the world and stray dogs and a lonely boy with white hair and red eyes, is mine.

I smile and pray that her sickness goes away.

October sixth brought me to the hospital to find Matilda sitting up and looking slightly better than the day before. She blushes the adorable red when I tell her how beautiful she is, and when I kiss her she tastes just as sweet – if not, sweeter than before.

I love you, she says.

I tell her I love her too, and that I never want her to leave me.

She slips a yellow candy in the shape of a smiling face, with the words smile!emblazoned on the back, into my hands. She reaches for a chalky candy heart and puts the two side by side, and I read it, black and red letters telling me – Matilda telling me – smile! I love you.

She whispers it once again and leans into my chest.

November ninth prompted me to visit Matilda's week old grave. I trace my fingers over the headstone's carving. The epitaph is simple, a few words surrounded by a geometrical heart.

I read it, thinking about Matilda and what she said about the world being big and finding someone who loves you.

I read it, knowing she was right.

I leave my roses and walk down the path, and halfway there a flash of yellow catches my eyes. The tiniest chick is balanced on a stranger's headstone, its fur the colour of Matilda's hair. Brown saucer eyes watch as I near it and gently pick it up and set it on my head.

'Hello little guy.'

but love lasts for eternity .