This little girl named Jackie had been born into the world with medical complications. She was missing a right lung and her left lung was the size of a grape. But Jackie was a fighter, becoming the youngest person ever to receive a lung transplant. She was only 17 days old when the operation was performed. From there she would grow up battling numerous medical issues, and beating them all until last week.

Because of her medical history, Jackie was small for her age, but her size only made her more determined. When I would help out at school I often noticed her spunk, which was evident in her walk and her drive to succeed at whatever challenge was put in front of her. And maybe because of everything she had to endure, those around her could sense that she was wiser than her years. She was a child who absolutely cherished each day.

My son would often come home and talk about her accomplishments with pride, like that of a brother. "Mom, you should see how much faster Jackie is running," he'd say. And when it came to swimming lessons at school, my son and Jackie had a special bond. During the early grades, neither child was comfortable in the water beyond the shallow end. But when my son pushed ahead, conquering his fears, he kept one eye on the deep end and the other over by the shallow side where Jackie was still working through her emotions.

Then one day last spring my son came home triumphant, but not because of his achievements in the water; he was beaming over Jackie's. "Mom, Jackie has improved so much. She isn't scared of the water anymore," he said. "She is doing great in the pool."

It was an important memory for my son, one he reminded me of as we sat together in the funeral chapel. I wasn't sure he would want to attend the funeral, especially because it included an open casket. But I could sense he needed some sort of closure.

He wasn't comfortable with the open casket, so I assured him we would look for a seat in the chapel that impaired our view. And I explained he was not obligated in any way to go up to the coffin. It was not how he wanted to remember his friend.

As we walked into the chapel, the cards and posters made by her classmates adorned the entrance, along with several photo collages of her 12 years of life. It was touching, sad and beautiful, and my son and I began to tear up. But he turned to me reassuringly to indicate he was OK and wanted to stay. As we waited for the pastor to speak, he looked around and saw most of his classmates, teachers and school administrators in adjacent seats. We listened to the pastor and many others talk about their memories of Jackie. Then it was time to walk up the side of a hill for the burial. Once again I wasn't sure my son wanted to go. But he said it was something he wanted to do. With my arm linked inside his, we slowly followed the casket up the hill. As the family and friends gathered around the burial site, my son moved over to be with some of his classmates at the edge of the gravesite. The pastor blessed Jackie and the coffin was lowered into the ground. I couldn't see my son's face because he had a hood over his head, but from the back his body language—straight and still—told me that suddenly human life was showing its stark finality to him. As I moved closer to him, a family member was passing out roses for family and friends to toss on the coffin as a personal goodbye. I asked Philip if he wanted to participate, and he quietly said yes. I told him to get in line with the others. I watched as his turn came to approach the gravesite. He kissed his rose and threw it in.

As we walked back down the hill, I asked him if he said anything as he tossed in his rose. He turned to me and said, "I told her, 'See you later kid.'"

Last Friday Jackie's family lay their daughter to rest on top of a hill in San Jose, with a field of buttercups lacing the slopes. On that day my son found closure saying goodbye to a friend.

Moryt Milo is the editor of The Willow Glen Resident. She can be contacted at 400.200.1051 or mmilo@svcn.com.