I hate it here. I don't remember a time when I didn't hate it. Sometimes I think I'm crazy because if it gets really quiet and I close my eyes and stop breathing for a second, I swear to God I can hear the words coming right out of my head: You'll leave, you'll leave. Strong, then calm, like waves. I clench my fists so hard when I hear them, so hard that my nails make sharp half-moon marks on my palms.
At the foot of the stone I arranged the rainy armful of azaleas I had picked from a bush at the gateway of the graveyard. Then my legs folded under me, and I sat down in the sopping grass. I couldn't understand why I was crying so hard.
Then I remembered that I had never cried for my father's death.
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Then I remembered that I had never cried for my father's death.
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