ch. 31

31Jan09

At the funeral the only people not crying were me and my mother. We stood side by side, holding hands, as his casket was lowered into the ground. It was the last time I would ever hold my mother’s hand, or the last time she would ever hold mine.

I think, after that day, we both sort of just shut down.

We were like two empty shells, filling ourselves up with anything and everything. My mother chose guilt and religion. I chose cynicism and alcohol.

These were all unflattering traits.

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