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“I’m buying them for my son. Today is his birthday.” “Really? Well, I hope it’s a happy one. How old is he?” “Six. He’ll always be six. He’s dead.”
Oh
She looked more dead than my son.
Nahhh
“Mold can be quite beautiful,” I told my husband. The spots multiplied, covering the shortcake in delicate blotches of color. “Get rid of it,” my husband said. I could tell he was angry. But I did not understand why he would speak so harshly about our son’s birthday cake. So I threw it in his face.
Valid reaction
Where does death come from?
She had no friends to speak of, belonged to no clubs, and she ate her lunch in a corner by herself. Still, no one bullied her or treated her like an outcast. She wasn’t disagreeable, just easy to ignore. You could even say her silence suited her. The pale skin, the long, straight hair, the shadows under her eyes when she bowed her head—it all lent her a kind of tranquillity that I think we didn’t want to disturb.
Me
“Play with the cat, do the laundry, listen to music—stuff like that.”
Myday
