The last time I saw you, you were wearing a white cotton shirt. You were standing upright with your wife on the lawn, in the sunlight, in front of the chateau, at my brothers wedding. You shared in the enthusiasm of the ceremony. For my part, I felt distanced from it. I didnt recognize my family in this mundane get-together. You didnt seem put off by the bourgeois ceremony, or by my brothers choice to have his love approved by third parties, even when these were distant third parties. You didnt have the sad and absent look you normally took on at public gatherings. You smiled, watching the people, a little tipsy from the wine and the sun, chatting on the large lawn between the white stone faade and the two-hundred-year-old cedar tree. I often wondered, after your death, if that smile, the last one I saw from you, was mocking, or if instead it was the kindly smile of someone who knew that soon he would no longer partake in earthly pleasures. You didnt regret leaving these behind, but neither were you averse to enjoying them a little longer.

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