The question

The whisper of the cold wind brushed her hair away from her collarbone, exposing her ears to humanity’s untold secrets—secrets she did not care for. In the middle of confusion, the brain roams through a labyrinth of memories. Where past collides with future, and all she has is the present.
He was ninety-two.
The perfect balance of the cosmos reflected onto the sidewalk, a twinkling masterpiece trailing her steps as she hides under the dark manteau. Her footprints carefully embossed by the emitting skylight follow her into the coffee shop.
A quiet man with a loud presence. Gone.
The crinkling green neon dictates permission of entry – “open.” She enters her haven, orders, sits. After a thousand goodbyes and sorrowful cries, she craves silence. Thoughts run free from conscience. Knowledge. Humanity’s burden. Only once before had she felt this way: so well acquainted with death, yet so full of life.
It was 1993; she was four years old. As a child, she was spontaneous, allowing her imagination to nurture the creativity that has become so prominent in her adult personality. The queen of her play, she created her kingdoms, slew her dragons, and dreamed of her prince charming. She dipped her cookies in milk, sprinkled her frosted cupcakes, and meticulously ate the head of her animal crackers (their disguise could not fool her; she knew they were from the evil land of the WIDDLE BERRIES). She was naïve, perhaps; nevertheless, she was curious. Whats, Whys, and Hows that never ceased to amaze her parents and challenge her realities.

She wanted to know about how the world worked—the adult world that is. She wanted to know why the sky was blue, where snowmen went, and how come grandma and Lilard (her two month old Shar-pei puppy) had similar skin. She was a fast learner; she could tie her own shoes and spell her own name. Years would pass before she realized the value of not knowing the unknown.
To this day, the haunting question challenges her intellect and chases her sleep away. She suppresses her mind and finds comfort in her cup of Joe. At nineteen, she does not recall why her four-year-old brain was puzzled with the subject. Like most childhood memories, the scenario is fuzzy, but the feeling vibrates, echoes, lives on. Desperation, belittlement, the first steps into her own human distress. Death. Is it true that people die? So there is an end? No happily ever after? Time and Mind had slowly stripped her of her ignorance—a child’s greatest gift. Why do we live to die?