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The Last Year of My Father

After receiving a lung and transforming himself into a grand old man, my father slipped suddenly from this world.

WHEN I LOST MY MOTHER, I met grief for the first time and I ran. I thought grief would be dignified and monumental like a black tower shrouded in mist or quiet days spent weeping in a dim room. Instead I discovered that grief is a relentless feedback loop, a noisy wash of static riddled with fractured images, creepshow dreams, and broken questions that can never be answered. How could this. Why didn’t she. If only I. This wasn’t supposed. Science tells us that grief is a biological necessity, a Darwinian driver that teaches us to protect the ones we love — or at least, the ones who still remain.

Notes from the end of a world. Searching for faith in the digital age. atlasminor.com

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