Someone from work passed away this week.

I can’t really bring the right words together to explain what happened without sounding like a callous fool.  Considering my news experience, you’d think I could come right out and say it as I see it like I do most everything else, but in this case…

She went to the gym Monday morning.  She was just 22.  Twenty-two.  Seriously?

I’ve been going back and forth for the past year (almost) with a friend from work, trying to get her to join me (or me to join her) to start working out.  There’s always something, usually on her part, but all it’s been is talk.

I don’t want this to affect my decision but at the same time, it already has.  I’m concerned.  I’m not 22; I’m not invincible.  I take longer to wake up.  To stand up.  I don’t have a bounce in my step anymore.

I’ve seen more death in the past year than I can recall.  Ana was an older woman, though, and she didn’t realize she had cancer until it was too late, and she didn’t live much longer once she found out.

Another woman at work escaped the claws of death, but she hasn’t been back to work since November.

I hate these signs of mortality.

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