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Shelter in a Storm
Shelter in a Storm

My nephew, Brett Sweeney was 29 when my mother died. He called her, "Mom", not "Grandma" because that is what his mother called her. Now, that made sense. Conversely, Brett has always called his own mother, "Nunney" that translated to "Honey" because that is what his step-dad calls his mother. That made sense too. When it comes down to it, Brett has always been quite savvy about those kinds of things. My great story took place on the day of my mothers funeral. It goes without saying that we were all grief stricken, subdued, and seeking comfort. Naturally, we were concerned for each other and concerned for Brett and his ability to process his grandmothers death. They had formed a close connection that expressed a great deal of affection. The moment that I found my shelter, I was lost in my own grief and numb to surrounding people and conversations. Sitting on the hotel bed, Brett looked as I felt. I walked over to give him a hug when he grabbed me, hugged me briefly, looked at me again, and shook his head. That was all that needed to be said. Brett has always made a lot of sense.

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