When Death Doesn’t Mean Goodbye
One night, a little before seven, Elisabeth Rante pulls a golden curtain back from the doorway. Together we slip inside. She speaks to her husband. "Papa ... Papa," she whispers. "We have a guest from far away." Behind us, second eldest son Jamie enters the room with a tray and walks up quietly. "Here is your rice, Papa. Here is your fish. Here are the chilies," he says.
As we back silently out of the room, Elisabeth says softly, "Wake up, Papa. It's time for your dinner." I turn back for a moment as eldest son Yokke explains: "She's taking your picture, Papa."
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