I just found out today that someone who was very important to me when I was young passed away.
He lived about 7 years after I saw him last, and then he died in the line of duty while trying to rescue a kid who was stranded in a raging river. The kid survived.
I'm not just sad; I am angry. What kind of a world is it where a good and kind man, who went on to become a police officer (and I guarantee he was one of the good guys), is dead at 27, but someone like the man who terrorized me is still breathing well into his 50s or maybe even 60s?
This man never got to have a family. That really gets me. It's the same as when my father died and one of the thoughts that kept making me cry was that my dad would never get to see his grandchildren. That's the hardest part of someone dying, for me. The things they won't get to do.