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2010-02-03 / 1:58 p.m.

The first death I can recall was the death of a woman named Mary. I knew she was old, older than my mother and my father, say, but I didn't realise that she was old enough for death. Death was for old people. Death was for sick people, and you could tell when somebody was sick just by looking at them. She wasn't sick and she wasn't old. She died anyway.
She was my grandmother's sister and I have a particular memory of sitting in a car, in the back seat, and of her being in the front seat next to another lady who seemed to be about her age. We were parked on a hill, and facing down the slope and both of them were turned to face me, their necks craned to talk to me. I don't remember what they said.
I have that feeling in my bones that there were many other incidents where I spent time with her, and I have a feeling that we were quite close in a way. I remember very little about her.
At her wake, I was still very young and I remember playing around a fountain with some other children and later sitting on a countertop with my father. I think I was wearing dungarees, but I probably wasn't. I associate those things with almost every memory of when I was a child.
Mary came from a family of undertakers. The house was split level, with the funeral home being upstairs and accessible from another door that lead to outside. My mother was going upstairs to see the body, and I wanted to come, but she told me that Mary would be green and look like a witch, and so I had to stay put.
I still can't tell why she told me that.
On that countertop, there was a lump in my throat. At a guess, I was four years old. I wanted to cry, but I knew even then that I wanted to be able to keep these things private for the rest of my life, that I wanted my tears to be quiet and hidden.
I don't know why I was sad, but I don't think it was because Mary had died, so much as the fact that everybody was so sad, and I was confused even though I somehow understood.
I went home with my grandmother that night, and I felt for her loss, but I didn't know what I was feeling.

This is my first memory of empathy.

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