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I didn’t put her away. I thought I would have. I thought I’d turned a corner.

For six weeks, an envelope with pictures of my dead aunt have been on my coffee table, waiting for me to do something with them. I have gotten teary-eyed just seeing the envelope. The last week has been especially difficult because I noticed that the pictures are halfway out of the envelope and the part I see is her exposed neck, her neck, the part that killed her. Or the cancer underneath. Whatever.

The pictures of her are when she was younger and healthier. Before she knew how she’d die or that the son (who was also in those pictures) would go before her.

I wrote her a letter before she died but didn’t get around to sending it. So I found it in my car, addressed and stamped, ready for her to read it. She’s not around to read it. She said she started a letter to me but couldn’t finish it because her hands were shaking so bad. I am sure the paper has been thrown away by now, but I’m haunted by what she may have said.

She told everyone I was her rock, but rocks don’t sob; they sit indifferent. And that I could never be.

Sobbing is never, ever attractive. It makes people uncomfortable.

Sobbing induces other people’s sobbing. It makes the one who started the sobbing feel a little guilty, but not really.

Sobbing is best suppressed after two minutes. One can continue to sob inwardly, but it’s best to be polite about it and shut up.

Sobbing causes mothers and fathers to cry, especially if it’s their daughter who’s sobbing the loudest or the only one who’s sobbing.

Sobbing is a sign of suffering. What can one do?

Sobbing as a memory induces sobbing in the here and now.

 

Sobbing is best left to the experts. Do not try this at home.

SOB with me

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