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I can’t get started.

Your home is peaceful.  The colors on the walls are earthly, copper, brown, beige, and neutral with personal tones.

I want to believe the elephants and dancer figurines, the artifacts, all the photos in all the frames and all the shrines that take its place are a fraction of your personality.

I don’t even know how to talk to you.

It’s odd this life, being on the opposites and contrasts roads from young to mature.  Strange that if I want to tell you how to live your time how do I trek about it?  You were my adult when I was a child and to be your adult when you’re the child is unanticipated as the moon turning from blue to bleeding orange.  It comes marching and blunt like wind.  Questions whirl.  Responsibility flies overhead and it hangs above like a waving broken handle, barely any verve.  And why would I want this power?

There are many things I wish to learn but am I bold enough to ask during a time when we eat dinner, drink wine and speak of life insurance and I having to direct life-altering decisions that will affect everyone else around and me until my demise.

Will there be a burial?  Will we cut a day because of the expense or force the hand of cremation?  And how many of the relatives will go in the grave this year?

-Pennington

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