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Death is a funny thing. The absence of something that once was, that once was not at all. The apoptosis or necrosis of cells. The grim reaper. The end of a concept or relationship. There was, once, a time when that thing, person, or concept had not yet become even a dream.

Death. The ending of hope. The green shrubbery I purchased so many years ago, enthusiastic that my naming of two native Australian plants and placing them proudly on my verandah would lead to green thumbery. Only then, months later, to be asked as to the wellbeing of Larry and Marg. And to, embarrassingly, ask my concerned friend who these folks were. Your plants, he pointed out, at which point I ran to my verandah to find them very much perished in the Dubbo sun. The baby put in his crib, only to be found silent and still some hours later. The teacher I had who had fathered the babe, telling us of his loss some sixteen years later, the pain still etched upon his cheeks. That child, who could have grown up to be an…

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