“
…the scent of incense reaches me. I think of looking back, but the fear of putrefaction suddenly grabs me, and I move on. Finally, at the end of the road, I stop and turn to admire the Roman-columned funeral home. In the distance, I see the bent figure stoking the flame and the thin line of smoke reaching high up towards the sky. A red kite cuts across its path and something tells me Sophie's enjoying this all somehow. The scent of burnt paper reaches me, and I know Grandmother is burning them for me too.
(Mismanagement of Grief)
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