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January 17, 2006

Jim: And I'll Cry If I Want to

“Are you okay, Abe?” his mother asked, standing beside his bed.

Abe rubbed his eyes. “M-m-mom?” he stammered.

“Quit fooling around,” she commanded with mock sternness. “You’re going to be late for your own birthday party!”

Abe leapt to his feet and raced into the living room. “Surprise!” yelled his friends. They had all come, even Margie. Lovely, wonderful Margie.

Abe remembered a lifetime of joyous winters and spectacular summers with Margie.

And then Margie died. Abe had been eighty then.

Margie smiled sweetly. “Happy Birthday, Abe.”

“Happy Birthday, Abe,” whispered the nurse, pulling the bed sheet over his face.

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