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There are nights that I dream about the funeral, about how bitter cold and wet it was, from the rain. I replay it all over again, about how unwilling I was to leave. About how unable I was to accept that he was already gone, and just his body remained. But I refused, absolutely refused, to think of him in the ground. As cold as it was, I just couldn't imagine him there.
There are days that I wake up from those dreams, and I just cry. I never knew I was capable of so many…
ContinuePosted on January 30, 2015 at 6:50pm — 3 Comments
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