When Death Becomes Your Generation, You Are “X”-rayed
Ezinne Ukoha

This is perfect.

When things like this happen, I feel my age more suddenly than at any other time. Sometimes I don’t seem to notice the context of me changing, and aging — except for occasional glimpses in the mirror, or when I glance down at my hands and see their scars and spots and lines.

Even surrounded by my own young children who seem to age at a rapid rate, it doesn’t often seem to click that I’m now at a point where someone who is 52 seems far too young to have died, and yet also struck by the sadness that I still hold this hope that if I reach a certain number my own troubles will miraculously ease and I will be safe, and his death refutes that naive certainty I cling to.

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