I one knew a girl who died without a spot of blood on her.
Her sister wore a killer dress to the funeral.
It was black, of course, but probably too tight to be truly respectful.
Her Grandmother would have disapproved but the ceremony had made her reflect on her own life.
She wished not for time to set her affairs in order, but just that she was young enough to swing dance again.
She missed the war and the air force men that it brought through her life.
Her husband's plane had crashed forty three years too early for him to make it .
There was a space by the grave where he would have stood if he had ever known the girl buried there.
But he didn't.
That girl I knew knew how to live.
Untill one day, she died.