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Interring her next to my father was prohibitively expensive, as he was buried cheek to jowl with some army buddies, and would have to be moved to a new spot along with Carmen. That was her name, Carmen. I couldn't figure out what to do with her. I was torn between chucking her out of a moving dating car and fevered grandiose gestures of memorial dating storage. The only thing I knew for sure was she didn't want to be scattered into the ocean, dating because she told me so several times over a course of 30 years. She left no specific instructions, though, so I put her on a shelf beneath the shrine I used to meditate. Instead of insight meditation, I did this: Breathe in: my mother sitting at her dressing table, telling me the stories of her family, chatting, turning, and wiping a smudge from my face with a Kleenex dampened by her spit. Breathe out: why did you lie to me?
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