If you've ever had cancer, it is inevitable that you will think of death and your own mortality. Death has been on my mind for the last two years ... not on the forefront, but definitely somewhere in the shadows.
In all those moments, I never thought that we would lose our cousin Bert to a heart attack. Bert with the big smile and the big heart couldn't possibly be dead at the age of 45. But she was, and the world got a little dimmer.
As I was reeling from the news, I remembered the teenager all those years ago who spent almost every weekend with us at the house in Keramat. Bert would meet me at the Star office in PJ, and together we would head home.
There lots of evenings spent grilling satay on Mum's makeshift charcoal grill; making little pizzas; going to movies; hanging out talking into the late hours of the night ... Sunday lunches at Swanson's followed by rum raisin ice cream. There was always laughter because we were at that stage in our lives -- young, unmarried, unhampered by the angst of love, all of which would come later. We were then, all young and happy, the promise of our lives stretching endlessly before us.
Bert's life would burn brilliantly for only a short time but those of us who were lucky enough to have known her, will always remember her -- the sound of her laughter, the twinkle in her eye.
Goodbye my dear cousin. You may be gone but we will never forget you.
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