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  • It's been almost a year since my babcia died, a few days after Mother's Day.

    When we got the news, I silently went upstairs, sat in the the bathtub, and cried, and screamed.

    My mother cried and screamed, too, but she did it much more often. She'd break down in her car on the way to work. She'd sit on the couch and sob during the weather report. My sister couldn't take it and hid in her room.

    My cousin dreamt of babcia's face, night after night.

    My mother asked me if I believed in an afterlife.

    My uncle believed it was babcia's spirit rattling his windows in the evening.

    Sometimes I talk to babcia, but I know it isn't her. I see an old woman on the subway and cry. People give me detached but sympathetic looks, for which I am grateful.
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