When the doctor showed me the picture of my brain, I thought it was beautiful. The grey part looked like it had been gently shaped by a breeze, like the dust of snow gliding across the pavement in ripples under the moonlight. And the spots reminded me of our first dog, the Dalmatian you said you hated. But the doctor's expression was severe, and you were crying. And you let Dad hold your head to his chest and rock you back and forth. But when the doctor said "three months," he didn't know it would be closer to three weeks.
You don't have to cry. You know - at my funeral. Heck, I don't even want a funeral. Just spread my ashes someplace nice. Don't keep me nearby. Why waste your money on a funeral? You could make a nice donation to that cancer organization. On second thought, you probably shouldn't make a donation like that in honor of someone who didn't even put up a fight.
In that case, I'm sure that suicide hotline would appreciate the money. On second thought, it didn't really help me. So in that case, maybe you and Dad should take that trip to Ireland you've always talked about. You used to tell me you'd been saving for years to go. Why waste it all on a funeral? On the other hand, every time you take the money out of your pocket, you'd think of me. I don't want to ruin Ireland for you.
So in that case, go ahead and give me a funeral.
But I'm not asking you to cry.
Spoiler! :
-Sea-
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