I was seventeen.

At a dance.

I met a girl with very short hair. Otherwise she was stunning. Black hair. Crystal blue eyes. Very light skin. French.

I asked her to dance. Half way through the song I asked why her hair was so short.

She said, I am going to die in six months or so.

It did not click at first. She looked healthy. I did not understand what that had to do with her hair.

We kept dancing. Over and over. I think two thirds of my dances that night were with her. I enjoyed her company. She was charming. Soft. Gentle. Beautiful. Kind. Sweet. French Canadian. There was a small language barrier. It did not matter. Her warmth came through.

I met a few of her friends that night. I kept in touch with them for a couple of years.

She had told the truth. She died a little over a year later. Cancer. Her hair was short because she had been through chemo. She was in that in-between period. Recovering. A little hair had grown back.

I think about her from time to time, grateful for the few moments we enjoyed together.

As hard as life can feel, we are still alive. She could have sat in sorrow complaining about her life. Instead, she chose a night with friends. A fancy dress party. Dancing. Being sweet. Being herself.

She faced death with a stoic calm that puts many men to shame. She spoke of it as if it were nothing. No big deal. There is a lesson in that.

It is hard to enjoy life if you focus on complaints. No matter how bad it gets, choose time with loved ones. Choose small joys. Choose what matters.

Do that, and you will not only enjoy your life. However short it is, it will mean something.