There, but for the grace of God, go I. But where is the grace for her?

I knew what happened as soon as I saw the police report. Pronounced dead. Familiar address. No foul play.

We were not best friends, or friends, or Facebook friends, and the last time I can absolutely confirm that I spoke to her was twenty years ago. There is a possibility that it was actually as little as twelve years ago, but I doubt that. It does not matter. She was always kind to me.

Her obituary says that she died after a long illness, and that she wanted to be a doctor, but her illness prevented it. Were it me instead, my mom would write that I wanted to be a history professor/architect/journalist/Olympian/novelist, but that my illness prevented it.

Christ. This is one of the times that I want heaven to be real, and I want people to know they are in it.

It is not like I could have done anything. We were not friends, and even if we were it probably would have not made a difference, but I feel a very deep kinship with everything written between the lines in that obituary, and my heart aches for her. She did not deserve that pain.