Death comes in threes, but sometimes it comes by fours.
At times it arrives in the shape of a cancer-struck math teacher, one whom you never knew but who's ghost whispers through the hallways and wipes out the teenaged laughters when it's heard.
And sometimes it stays as a great-grandmother, one whom lived in a city miles away and you loved in spite of the respites of contact. And then when that death comes, it tastes of guilt, for you could have gone to visit her more often, and because it was only at her funeral that you discovered that she loved poetry as much as you.
And then it finallizes with a youth, and you could swear it ends there, because death comes in threes and because if it's the death of the kindest friend you have in the world's two year old sister, G'd must have taken a deep breath and ordered death to stop.
But sometimes death comes by fours, and you are chilled by the knowledge that death will come in the numbers that it wishes and in the form it can. For if the suicide of a past friend whose friendship you broke a few years ago's mother does anything, is prove that death will come, and that you are no longer the child to whom life presented itself as an eternal state of being. It proves that death in the old years comes often, but death in the young years comes devastating.
And if this is a part of life, why does it leave it tasting thus like its counterpart?