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"Why did she have to die?"
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She whispers it calmly, her voice displaying a level of uncertainty. She knows that this subject is a painful one, one carefully dodged by just about anyone who knew my now deceased little sister.
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She was something of a rarity, my little sister, with her ethereal beauty and everpresent jovial mindset that seemed to lift your spirits the moment she entered the room. When she spoke, she had a melodious lilt to her gentle voice, making you think about things like songbirds, and poems, and lullabies with every tranquil word she expressed. Her life embodied everything leal and innocent in this world, the definition of adolescence in a place where virtue has become quiescent. Her memory reminds me of delicate yellow buttercups, and sunsets over a meadow, of bird songs, and poetry, and sweet smiles that seem to soften your heart and load you with joy all at the same time.
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So how to reply to this girl, who is experiencing grief head-on as I am, but coming from the viewpoint of knowing my sister as a friend.
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I can only come up with one simple response.
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"Because the good die young."
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