Its happened to me twice now, I suppose. My father, under various circumstances, informs me that he's just died. The first time, I was called out of my elementary school class, and I was informed that my grandfather had died. I was young then, almost too young to realize it. The second time, which occured just a few minutes ago, my father opens the door and says the same thing, in different words perhaps. This time it was my uncle. He was an obese man, but also one of the sweetest soul's you'd ever meet. My grandmother found him. Now that I'm older, I can't say that I'm old enough because I suppose I should have a different reaction, but I don't. I sit here untouched, unaffected. I'm sad but I can't understand it yet. I'll cry at the funeral. I always cry at the funeral. I don't cry for myself. I cry for the man I'll never know better due to age and inexperience and death. I cry for my grandmother, who has to watch her husband and son die before their time. Atleast it was quick for me.

More than anything I realize that I have to fear the moment when my Mother comes home. I have to tell her. She doesn't know yet. My father went to find her but he won't. She'll come back here. I'll have to become my father. I'll have to become the barer of bad tidings. Until the day when I die, and my son has to tell his children that I'm gone.

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