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when you’re on your deathbed, or at least, say, sixty-one, the time you’ll look back on most fondly will not be the day you bought your first Picasso painting at Sotheby’s, the little still life done in 1921 — oh, am I alone in this? — but the years after you graduated, when you were first living as an adult and everything seemed so possible.
My father did not pass. Neither did he depart. He died. Why the euphemisms? Who are they helping?
