I recently lost a very beloved friend. She was the youngest of a family of three. She was talented, musically and academically, but without the financial resources to take on a college education, like so many others in that position, she decided to pursue professional training as a nurse. But her true love was music: she played guitar, and was constantly experimenting for new sounds she could make on her awesome Washburn. But she was a chronic asthmatic, and a smoker, and I believe the smoking aggravated the asthma, and a few days ago, she had a massive attack, and died before the ambulance could reach the hospital.
Everyone who knew her was stunned; especially because she was so young; not very much past the age of twenty. She had a mischievous sense of humor, and loved animals, and had several pets. She loved to travel, but could not really afford to get out of her hometown very much, but greatly enjoyed every sortie outside the confines of her usual round. When someone elderly passes away, we're not so stunned as relieved; their time has come. But for this child, her death seems very much as if she was stolen from us, a mean theft.
In the story about Emily, which I began to describe some months ago, I had a death early in the story. Emily's divorced husband takes ill, and comes back to her, and she takes him in. He dies, and I describe my feelings about death there. It is a bit of writing that is dear to me; I'm sure greater writers have conveyed those same feelings a lot more successfully, but this piece is mine, and I want to present it here, in memory of my little songbird, whom I miss very much, and it has hardly been a few days. To everyone who feels cheated of enjoying a reasonable amount of time with someone we love: I hope this piece helps.
I will put it up as a document, and link to it once it is ready,
Kay
