By: Tatiana Forero Puerta When I was little I thought people only died at night. When death came for her at 4pm the sun still shone blossoms pink to velvet opening their tabernacle mouths towards the sky, petals like hallelujah arms. A bird on the windowsill stared in opened its beak silent, unable to sing the piercing song of our sorrow. After they rolled her pale body away there were enough hours left to keep living like running in a dream where no matter how fast your legs shuffle, you’re never moving: we could get in a car, go grocery shopping,…