Yesterday, for reasons unknown, I opened my have-not-been-touched-in-a-too-long-a-while Google Plus account. A very little yet conspicious red flag on the upper right corner alerted me to “new” notifications. Apparently a few of my friends have added me and I failed to respond. But then I felt my heart sink and blocks of concrete materialized out of no where in my stomach.

There she was. She added me and I didn’t respond.

May died last year. She was 29 years old. On a very rainy and dark saturday morning, she failed to see a red traffic light and was hit by a street tram. She died a few minutes later right there. Not an old lady in her own home,  surrounded by loved ones, you know, like we all love to assume we’ll go. No, young and healthy, lying on the street and surrounded by strangers. With no chance to say goodbye to anyone.

This little red flag was the bleak reminder that she existed and now she doesn’t. Just like that.

The suddeness of her passing shook me more than my own mother’s death. Even though my mother’s passing away brought out much deeper feelings of sadness and loss, she did die of cancer after suffering for two years. It somehow comforted me  that there was some sort of warning, a chance to prepare, even if we denied it the entire way. Not with May.

Of course, being human and casting ourselves in the center of everything, when someone close to you – and especially of your own age – dies, you see yourself in their shoes. You see this as a very real case of “it could’ve been me”; suddenly introspection hits you just like that tram. What am I doing with my life? Where are my  time and money disappearing? What will people say at my funeral? What will my children remember?

On the the anniversary of her death, I’m changing course. And here is my journey.