Sam died today. She’s 36. She was 36.

I stopped thinking for a moment, for minutes. As if the ground beneath me gave way and I began to fall.

When people die it feels different now that my dad died. I see it different, almost as if I was an omniscient spectator, staring down from above the room. I can see Sam’s room. I went in her house for the first time 3 months ago. We both left early from work and I drove her home to her yellow apartment. She invited me in and I accepted.

The smell was old and moldy. The hardwood floors gave when you walked, more so for her because she was bigger, and there was barely enough light to really see anything clearly. She opened the door to a world of wonder. From floor to ceiling, everywhere was covered. Collectors you could say. Her and her boyfriend collected records, tapes, books, figurines, movies, every little thing. They had build-in shelves for every item, and each little treasure was put on display. I cannot remember if her couch was purple or blue or black, but it was pushed up against a wall of books and things.

We walked into her kitchen. Books from floor to ceiling, wall to wall covered. Some how she fit a microwave, an oven, and a refrigerator in between.

Her bedroom was behind the living room. I don’t remember much, the queen sized bed with a black comforter and more things. Star Wars figures, Batman and Robin, crazy looking skulls, everything you’ve ever seen at a thrift store, in a display case, in comic book magazines.

I can see her dying in there. Maybe it’s because I’ve see where my dad died. I know the smell, the lighting, the way your hair stands on your skin. I know how you body decays so quickly. How dad’s skin slipped off, his limbs separated, his fluids released. I can see her over-weight body lying underneath the comforter. Her jet black hair sprawled out on the pillow. The room dark, a slight sliver of light coming in from the cracks around the window covering. I can see from above, her sleeping. Her round stomach rising and falling with every breath until it stops. She stops.

It’s so close I can touch it. All my sense so aware of what it feels, smells, looks, sounds, and taste like. So close I can reach it. My mind can touch it.

I hate these things I’ve seen.