Thirty-one.

Thirty-one.

Thirty-one always seemed like the right age to die.

Not too old: people will still mourn your youth, the beautiful years of life you had in front of you.

Not too young, though. Not young enough to have “barely begun to live.” If you’re too young, you don’t know what you’re giving up.

If you die too young, your own immaturity or ignorance could be the cause. No, no, that won’t do. But if you’re too old, perhaps it was natural, and where’s the fun in that? There’s no glory in a heart attack, no pride in a stroke. Heaven’s gates calling you home, years earned and body well-spent.

No, no. That would never work.

Thirty-one was just right.

__________________________

~ Victoria Elizabeth