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From The Publisher's Desk
There should be a rule, a commandment that says “thou shalt not outlive thy child.”
I was a teenager when my cousin Nicky died. He had just started college and was on the dean’s list when he was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. He was handsome and athletic but the cancer didn’t care.
Our family gathered at my aunt and uncle’s home after Nicky’s funeral and ate food left by faceless neighbors. It was a somber afternoon. I avoided eye contact with my Aunt Winnie, who seemed to be in a daze.
Thirty years later I discussed another young boy’s death with this same aunt. My sons and I had just arrived in Los Angeles and were staying with her. We were on an all-sports vacation that included fabulous seats for the 1994 World Cup and a Giants game in San Francisco.
The first night on the road a friend called to tell me that my youngest son’s best friend had died. The boys were inseparable since pre-school. Drinking iced-tea under an umbrella in her back yard, I confided with my aunt that I was wrestling with a decision that my older sons and I had made not to tell Dana about Jonathon’s death until we got home. Her eyes welled up when I spoke. I could see Nicky in her eyes.
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