What I am going to write today is something I have never attempted before, not even in my personal diary. It came up in a conversation this morning with my partner who suggested that I should write about my experience of my mother’s death. He believes that something significant is locked there. Hence this attempt to unlock. My mother was only 29 years old when she died. I lost her when I was three years old. In fact, she celebrated my third birthday in August of 1961 by buying me red shoes (I remember because a friend in the building asked me to stand on top of cinders on the same day and I could not wear my lovely red shoes on my birthday), and I remember her crying about my burnt feet. She passed away three months later in November, on the same day. She died suddenly, unprepared, trying to have an abortion all by herself because she did
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