She took my silence really hard and couldn’t reply it the same way I did. She chose not to reply it. Instead of it she listened to the music I put on. She looked at the pictures in the book I hung the wall. I know she wanted to flick the pages. Everything was different, and nothing I could say would make any difference any more. If I would have spoken, she would have asked for a better handwriting. I gave her the music to listen to because she needed to feel the pain of being a child of her parents, and becoming aware of someday losing them, living through Sundays without them, Mondays even.

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