One of my students wrote this to me:
Grief is a two-faced bitch that shows up at your doorstep when you're in the middle of dinner, pulls up a chair, and overstays her welcome.
Smart woman. It's so true. I'm with my mother right now. She's gone. She's 97 percent gone. There's so little left, even of her body. It's eating itself alive. She's dying from complications of dementia. I haven't talked about it because what was there to talk about? Why did I want to tell you?
Why did I want to tell myself?
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