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Sitting in the dim light from the steps that led to the little room in the basement, I let my gaze go soft, took a breath, and began to tell my story. It was terrible to hear someone talk out loud about how Manny had died. It hurt me to hear that voice actually speaking the story into the universe – the blood, the screaming, the day the earth shattered to dust…
After Manny died, when people I loved would lose someone, they would ask me how do we survive it? They would ask if I felt crazy, if my job suffered, if my family was understanding, if people said wild things to me. And I would remember how desperate I, too, had been to find people to talk to, and to find other stories of survival, like mine. I remembered my insatiable search for answers, and how frustrated I felt that the world made me feel as though my grief was a secret that I should cover up. I want to end that kind of feeling for other people. I want other people to hear a story they can identify with, especially because it is a story, finally, of hope and love.
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