Denise

It's been ten years since I last saw my pretty cousin Denise. That was the day she was gone forever, at 18 in a car crash. Today she'd have been 28. I look back on and see the grief. Such a waste of a life. And I can only repeat what I read during her funeral, bearing in mind her white coffin.
When somebody dies, a cloud turns into an angel, and flies up to tell God to put another flower on a pillow. A bird gives the message back to the world and sings a silent prayer that makes the rain cry. People disappear, but they never really go away. The spirits up there put the sun to bed, wake up the grass, and spin the earth in dizzy circles. Sometimes you can see them dancing in a cloud during the day-time, when they're supposed to be sleeping. They paint the rainbows and also the sunsets and make waves splash and tug at the tide. They toss shooting stars and listen to wishes. And when they sing windsongs, they whisper to us, don't miss me too much. The view is nice and I'm doing just fine.