But I, who hadn’t even cried when I woke from my concussion with a broken rib, did not want to stop. And not only that, but the more she asked me not to cry, the more I clung to my sobbing and even enjoyed it. I was convinced that I had every right to throw my tantrum. I, who when I woke from my coma, still concussed, confused by my state and by the abruptness of my papa’s departure to heaven—an innocent who didn’t understand that to go to heaven, one first had to die—barely reacted, barely cried when my mama told me.
