When I was thirteen years old, I learned to always go to the funeral. It didn’t matter how close you were to the deceased, you just go. No questions asked.
It was a gloomy spring afternoon. I had just been picked up from school by my mother and as soon as I sat in the passenger seat, I could tell by the look on her face that something was off. I didn’t mind it too much, I was sort of in my own world as a kid. It wasn’t until later that day, when I was sitting in my room watching T.V, when she had walked in with teary eyes and a quivering bottom lip and told me that Mrs. Manjool’s son had died over the weekend. Mrs. Manjool was a co-worker of my mother’s and she was one of the sweetest people I have ever known.
Her son was…
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