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37 Tell Them Tell them, even if it’s a lie, I went alone. No family standing around my bed, no paramedics working in vain. Tell them I was the only child, still, mumbling only to myself as the clock hands strained for the ceiling. Or say I was staring at the wall thinking, I’m glad I didn’t repaint that. Tell them I was happier knowing I spent those hours with a book, or walking in October night rain, or just looking out the window and saying that’s right. Tell them I went the way I wanted, the way I dreamt of: holding her hand, her hair sweeping my cheek as she whispered something, in French, her native tongue filling my ear: a phrase I didn’t understand but knew to mean everything was fine, perfect, and always would be. ...

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