Guilt, Shame, and the Survival of Death

In the weeks and months after March 6, 2015 — the day I signed before a witness the papers authorizing them to carry out the cremation which Mom had long since confided to me that she wanted — I rationalized that secret, heartless response. I propped it up with justification after justification as if I could somehow plaster over the ugliness of the thought with enough evidence to neutralize its sting and to redeem myself as her loving son.

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