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The Night She Died



The Night She Died
By kennethcook on 04/29/2012
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I didn't cry the night she died.

As she drew her last rattling breath; her trembling hands turning still, blue, and cold, I could feel myself dying with her.

I didn't cry at her funeral.

I felt like I was attending my own funeral, and who cries at their own? As the sad words were spoken, extolling her virtues, and the solemn songs were played, celebrating her life, I felt that I was the one being spoken of; listening to songs played for me.

I didn't cry at her funeral... until they played THE song... "our song", and then I realized it at last. Awareness overwhelmed me like a deluge, and the denial lifted like the morning fog: She's dead; I'm alive. This is not my funeral; it's hers and hers alone... She's gone from me forever... I'm alone, but I'm alive.

I didn't cry the night she died.
I didn't cry at her funeral... At first.

But I haven't stopped crying since that day.


By kennethcook On 4/29/2012 1:50:54 PM

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