Why am I talking about all this? Who am I talking to? I send out these words, these thoughts, simply because it is time. Time for what, I do not know and it does not matter because it is what I want and that is always reason enough for me.

Most of all I grieve for my soul because even though I do, finally, believe there is a God, and that I have met him, I do not know if he has given me an immortal soul, but only one that was to last me as long as my body lasted. I do not know if when the last page of my book is closed, that will be the end of me.

It doesn't matter. You are what you are. I am what I am. We are the same-when you take the time to remember me.

It is a paradox. Life is that way. God designed it that way. I believe I met him once. He was full of mischief.

Death never comes at the right time, despite what mortals believe. Death always comes like a thief.

But I wasn't a bad girl. I don't want to be forgotten. I want people to remember me.

I went to work at the library. I know that sounds crazy but I didn't know where else to go. Besides, at the library I was constantly surrounded by people. And I loved my job, surrounded by so many books, so many lives, so much of the past.