I am thinking about death. And all the little things you would’ve done different if you knew. I am thinking about how unpredictable it is; like death could come knocking at your door any second and you wouldn’t know. You’d skip out on saying goodbye to your mother because you’re late for school, ignore your little sister when she asks to play with you because you’d rather watch television or read or do something else than little kid stuff, tell your brother to go away when he barges through the door because you’d rather be alone. I’m thinking of all the moments I would’ve changed if I knew I’d die tomorrow. I would reach out to my dad for one, and ask him to come home, just so we can have a family dinner once more. I would call all my best friends and all the ones I wished were my friends, tell them how much I admired them and inspired them, all the things I was too afraid to speak out, let them know that without them I wouldn’t know who I’d be. I would lay under the nightsky on spiky itchy field grass and look up at the stars, watching them twinkle, letting my thoughts and emotions rise like the world has stopped moving, like I didn’t have better things to do like homeworks and projects, and feel so small. I would reach out more, to a particular boy, tell him I like him and kiss him under the rain, wanting my chance at love. I wonder about death; the unfathomable kind. The one that enters and takes away, leaving nothing but gripping coldness and ache at the now empty space left. The universe gives and takes and I am afraid I won’t be able to do the things I’ve always dreamed my life I’d be doing: doing the things I love every single day, never held down by insubstantial matters. I don’t want to worry about accounting or theology, about school papers or losing weight or the fact that I don’t know where my future is headed. I wonder about death, and it taking away those who barely had a chance to live, or have lived but not in full. I wonder how it chooses, in random or in kind, a fate that comes to play as punishment or maybe gratification, an end to the suffering at its tail. I wonder about all the people I’ll forget to say I love you to, all the people I’d never tell goodbye, all the secrets that would be buried with me when it’s my time to croak, and all the life that slipped away under my fluttering fingers, a one-winged butterfly crashing, crashing down to the blackout. I think about death– the sad kind of not being able to live enough, and I wonder if I’ll be lucky enough to be taken away first before anybody else gets taken away before me. After all, the only thing that’s worse than leaving is being left behind to face the wake.