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of us needed to say anything.
My mother, Natalie Prescott, is buried under an old pine on a quiet hill. Her name is carved into gray stone, simple and elegant, exactly the way she lived.
My father knelt down slowly and brushed a few dry needles off the headstone with his handkerchief. His hand shook, but the tenderness in it was steady.
I set white carnations continue reading …
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