A second cousin of mine died a few weeks ago. He was 44 years old, and died peacefully in his apartment.
When his mother hadn't heard from him in a while, she managed to get master keys to his place and locked herself in. There she found him.
These are the duties of parents in general, and perhaps mothers in particular. To confront your greatest fear, go to the trouble of finding a key you're not really supposed to have, and be the first to know something awful has happened. Then pull yourself together and take care of things. And then, if all this wasn't enough, be grateful that you could perform this last service to your children.
Every time a parent buries his or her children, we're reminded that life is inherently unfair, that the human race has too much left to figure out, that even our greatest hopes can turn into the greatest tragedies in an endless millisecond.
May Tarald Andresen's memory be for a blessing.
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