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I remember the smell of your hair those last days.

And the cream on your face and the way the man at the funeral home apologized, but said that it was needed to keep your skin soft, and we would have to see past that.

I never thought I’d have to say goodbye to you so soon. It seems so unbelievably unfair after all you’ve fought through.

What kind of God is there, and where is he at now? Nowhere around me, do I feel him at all. How am I supposed to bare this?

As if the fact that your hair still smells like carnations could ever make up for it at all.

J.Rounds (c)2008 ~Peaces of Me

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