Love, and memories, and massive gobs of empathy.
Brooke and I are in the car, on our way home.
“Do you remember when Kiki was crying in January?” she asks.
I try tocall up a script, but come up dry. I’m not sure what my response is supposed to be.
“Why was Kiki crying?” I ask.
“In January,” she says.
Ah, now I know where she’s going.
“Do you mean when Ooma died, honey?” I ask.
“Uh huh. What did you tell me? About how what we’d been practicing was really happened.”
“I told you that Ooma had passed away,” I say.
“How did you say it?” she asks.
She needs to hear the words, to replay the exact conversation. It hurts, but it’s necessary. It’s how she processes – how we process together.
We repeat the words, then drive for a moment in silence.
“Do you think Ooma and Grandma Noe are baking together?” she…
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