My sister came to my mother's funeral. She stood at the gates, watching my uncles carrying the coffin from the flower-lined hearse. A pale ghost, standing apart from the rest of the mourners. Rose looked exactly as I remembered her. I had not seen her for 12 years, but she had not aged. I touched my hand to my hair, streaked through with grey.rnTerminal cancer does that, slowly pulling its victim towards its breast and swiping its vicious claws at the grieving family, bleeding the life of out them. I had sent word to Rose when my mother was first diagnosed.
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