April 18, 1984
I awake in a bit of a fog, only slightly aware of the telephone ringing. We got in late last night. Long past our bedtime. I can hear my father in the kitchen, his muffled conversation floating upstairs to my room. It's just before 8. We've slept in. I'll have to rush to get ready for school this morning. My father slowly climbs the stairs and I turn to see him enter my bedroom. He is tired and carries a strange expression on his face. He reaches my bedside and takes a seat. He isn't looking at me, but out my bedroom window to the hillside and winding road. When he faces me again tears have formed in his eyes. He covers my hand with his and tells me my mother is gone. His words get lost in a sudden release of grief. I turn my head into my pillow, tears flowing. I'm not completely certain of what he's said, I'm hoping I've misunderstood, but know I have not. He sits for awhile on my bed and we both silently weep. Without a word h
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