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I said, “I couldn’t watch another mom die,” and his confusion turned into sympathetic grief. Because my birth mother died by her own hand, it’s almost a forgotten point that I did watch her die. She chose to die and so it must be a different kind of grieving than, say, cancer. And it is. But just because the grief is different, it does not mean that I’ve been given an infinite bucket-full of capacity to grieve. I haven’t.
The Friendly Flower
Aza Y. Alam
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Very insightful... thank you.
Exploring the entanglements of gender, race and class during this era of the Eurokleptocene. Let’s do better, one story, one learning, one comment at a time.
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