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Death is...a very fickle thing.

I'm not exactly sure what to say about it. I've definitely written my fair share of death scenes (and then some). Today, for the first time, I experienced the tragedy. But I'm not sure how to feel. I was my mom's best friend; the only person I think I ever actually hated. But I cried anyway. I'm not sure why....I don't know if it was for my mom or for me, but I cried anyway.

I don't think that it fully sank in yet. I had my crying fest, but I think it's okay now. The last time I saw him, I gave him a dirty look and quick "hi". Now, most people would be devestated that that was their last contact with someone before they died. I'm not. I find it oddly fitting and vaguely reminiscent of my entire relationship with him. It was the last time I saw him alive. In the front seat of his van with a Northface hate and dark sunglasses.

I'll never yell at him again. I'll never give him dirty looks or bitch about him. Jokes about him suddenly won't be funny or in good taste because he is no longer among the living. I'm just not exactly sure how to feel about it. The only prominent deaths in my life have been of my Papa's mother and my Papa's best friend. I was never particularly close to either. The only memory I have of my great-grandmother is the one time I visited her with my cousins, Aunt, and Nana. Catherine and I (Grace was too young and Allie and Olivia weren't born yet) were jumping around her apartment playing Sailor Moon. She yelled at us for being loud. My Aunt ushered us out of the room with Gracie in her arms, leaving my Nana in there alone with her. I've never been particularly curious about what happened between them that day, but I've always had the slightest of inklings (though, if I asked my Nana, she probably wouldn't remember it). I met Paul, my Papa's friend, multiple times. The main memory I have of him is at my Uncle Jimmy's wedding. Us girls (Catherine, Grace, Allie, and myself. Olivia was still too young) were the only ones on the dance floor. We danced together and Paul (who was a double leg amputee from the Vietnam War) wheeled out and began spinning around in his chair (I assumed his way of dancing with us). Gracie, who I was dancing with, instantly fled out of fear. I, however, embraced the opportunity and took his hand. I don't remember much except for his smile and laugh and how much it meant to my Papa (who is a leg amputee himself. Unlike Paul, he was lucky and only lost one). None of us knew that I would have Paul's last dance. To this day, I think that it still means the world to my Papa that I stayed with Paul to dance.

I never liked Timmy. My mom claims that there was a time I did, and I agree with her if only because I'm sick of arguing with her over it. I am 100% certain that I never liked him. I'm, for lack of better words, neutral about the whole thing. Whenever I think of him, I'll think of the night he got into a nasty fight with my mom and started bringing me into the fight to get to my mom. He brought up the sore subject of my father- a sort of taboo around here. I'll remember the fist fight between them that occured that night and me calling 911. I'll think of the devestated look on my Mom's face when I came home today. I'll think of seeing him in that big white van wih his stupid northface laugh and the awkward "hi" he gave me while I only glared and replied with as much hate as I could muster in my voice.
 
I'll never think of the good things straught away- they'll always be an after thought.

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