I’ve heard the voice of death four times this summer: during farewell calls to my aunt and father figure who were in the last days of lives abbreviated by cancer, in the final goodbye from a friend who would attempt suicide, and in the sigh of my 94-year-old grandma who suddenly feels cursed by good health and is becoming impatient for the morning she does not wake up.
As eerie and hopeless as each of those conversations felt, as overly familiar as we have become with death in the first nine months of 2020, I was unprepared for the depth of anguish brought by the news that Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg had passed away.
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