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March 28, 2002
I have this memory; he is holding a baby in his arms, trying to breath life into its little blue body. He doesn't succeed; and I think that hit him harder than he will ever admit, or understand. I remember this baby's funeral; the small casket, the hushed tones, and the wee body in white. Sometimes, considering the fraidy-cat type my grandmother is, I wonder why I was taken to that funeral. I was five years old, the man was my uncle, and he was trying to give mouth-to-mouth to a neighbour's baby that had stopped breathing in its sleep.