“Everything dies, buttercup,” he once said as we sat on the front porch, watching a storm roll in. Carver was toddling in his play pool, and Alice was gurgling on his knee. “That’s a fact. But you wanna know a secret?” And I had leaned in, so sure it was a cure for death, a way to bat it away – “Everything that dies never really goes. In little ways, it all stays.”
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