A few years ago, I didn't know any dead people. My Grandmother's brother, who we called Uncle Ed, had died of lung cancer, but I didn't know him, so his funeral meant nothing. So it goes.

When I was a sophomore in high school, the first person I knew who died was a friend's mother. She died of Ovarian Cancer, and in the few months preceding her death she seemed to shrivel and melt like rotten fruit. So it goes.

A few months after that, my grandfather finally died of prostate cancer. His prostate had swelled up with a tumor until it was almost as big as a basketball, or so I was told. Finally, it crushed his liver. So it goes.

After that, another friend's mother died suddenly of a brain tumor. She took about two months to die. So it goes.

A few months ago, a friend's mother died of cancer, ovarian again. She died in about six months, and her husband cried as he read a eulogy for her. So it goes.

Those are the only people I've ever known to die. I suppose I've been very lucky. A man I work with from Bangladesh can remember being stuck in rivers that were clogged with dead people. So it goes.