I was fourteen when I died for the first time.
I think we’re all afraid of death. I think, for those of us who are fortunate enough to get old, it’s something we eventually come to terms with. The thing is growing old isn’t guaranteed, and I know that better than a lot of people. For me, it’s not so much the fear of death itself as it is the uncertainty. Nobody can tell me what will happen to me when I’m dead. It’s something I’ve thought about a lot. It’s something I still think about a lot.
During the times where my body gets the sickest, I’ve thought about my funeral. I’ve thought about the things I hope my family says about me. It really isn’t as dreary as it sounds, thinking about your own death. Some people don’t have to worry much about it. To others, like me, it’s always an unanswered question at the back of my mind.
Despite being six years apart, I was always quite close with my sister Hattie. She disappeared on her way home from school, right off of a street filled with people. That was four years ago. She was nine.
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