“You may think that when you die, you disappear, you no longer exist. But even though you vanish, something which is existent cannot be non-existent. That is the magic.”
My mother does not know who I am. She lives in a locked down wing of a facility that she will never leave. She cannot hold anything in her mind for more than a few seconds. She will die there. I often hope it’s soon.
My mother is gone.
Before she was gone, my mother would often say to me, “You’re such a good writer.” She meant it as a compliment I know but there was something else. It was as though she thought that I didn’t understand, or wasn’t using, my talent.
But all those years my mother kept saying this to me, I was writing. Along the way I published dozens of articles, several book chapters…
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