TIME

Whose privilege is showing? Probably mine. But don’t ask me to check anyone else

WHEN I WAS 16, I WORKED IN THE NURSING HOME A FEW miles from my house. It sat without irony right next to a funeral parlor. There was just a driveway between the two buildings, and the funeral director used to send leftover flower arrangements that we’d dismantle and put in vases so they weren’t quite so recognizable. There was, as you can imagine, some traffic going the other way too.

It was a sobering place to spend your days as

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