Front Page News

A couple of years ago I was perusing the newspapers. In the span of eight days three deaths were reported. Two of the men were one time notables from my small state. The third was a celebrity who was well known in the United States and beyond.

Here goes.

The man who married me passed away. No, not my husband.

It was the judge who married us thirty-six years ago at an intimate gathering which took place in my aunt’s living room on a chilly November afternoon.

He also happened to be the Chief Justice of Rhode Island’s Supreme Court. Due to ethics violations he would resign from that position in 1993.

So, this is what happens when someone who has experienced a state of disgrace dies. The crimes and misdemeanors are unearthed and once again splashed across the front page.

Their death appears to be a perfect segue into a rehashing of past sins.

In that same newspaper, as one slowly thumbs their way toward the back pages where the obituaries reside, another story awaits. An entirely different rendition. Parentage, place of birth, education, family, hobbies, organizations and religious affiliation. A listing of beloved survivors left to mourn the loss. Nowhere is there even a whisper of any wrong-doing. Nor should there be. The family pays for the obituaries. By the line!

That same week another Rhode Islander, of a good age, also died. A fellow who embezzled, destroyed evidence and ended up serving prison time. That was back in the 1980s. But we were reminded (although we already remembered) of his dastardly deeds when we unfurled the newspaper that landed on our front step. Informing us of his passing. When we finally make it to the back, once again where the obituaries rest, another description emerges. He was a World War II volunteer at the age of eighteen. Had a strong faith and believed in supporting Catholic education. Was a community leader. Worked until he was ninety-two years old. Missed by so many. Is this even the same person described on the front page?

Yes, it is.

Front page. Back page.

One more death occurred during that span of eight days. This one received non-stop national news coverage. It was a tragic accident. He was a sports superstar. A breaker of records. In the prime of his life. A loving husband and father of four. Beloved by fans and celebrities alike. His front page story did not allude to any misdeeds. Not one.

It only focused on the tragedy and loss. The shock that his family, friends, fans and others felt. Story upon story of his accomplishments filled newspaper and magazine pages. His role as a loving father and concerned community member.

He also was accused of a crime many years ago. A very public apology and a cash settlement. Yet, when that was even mentioned, tweeted or discussed it was immediately squashed. People got ugly and threats were unleashed. Fury. People were afraid to talk or write about it.

Why? Was it the tragic circumstances of the death? The age of the deceased? The national stage versus the local stage?

None of us are saints. All of us are sinners. There is absolutely no doubt about that. But no one should be on a pedestal. We all have our own front and back page.

Each of those three men already paid for their crimes-literally and figuratively.

If the front page is a listing of failings then shouldn’t it apply to all? Shouldn’t it be a fair and honest reporting across the board? No matter the level of stage presence?

Or why don’t we just delete that front page and enjoy the scrubbed up version. Hidden somewhere on the back page.

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Coming To A Neighborhood Near You

Our youngest, Hannah, graduated from university this past weekend. She earned her degree in December but walked the stage in May. It was a time of celebration for our family. So very proud.

Now, as an American mother, are there times when I breathed sighs of relief that my child was no longer in elementary school? Yes, I admit that I have, even though those years were the absolute best. Amazingly fun, formative years.

But those would be the stupidest sighs of relief I’ve ever emitted.

Because shootings in the USA (note: not the world) are commonplace.

Everywhere. My children and loved ones are still vulnerable. We are all vulnerable.

Grocery stores, houses of worship, college campuses, workplaces, concerts and many other places.

It’s just particularly heinous when innocent children are gunned down in their elementary classrooms.

We absolutely need to come together as a country-regardless of political affiliation-and demand change.

Jaysus, this life is already very short and it’s getting shorter and shorter, by the minute, for many (in this so-called advanced country) due to gun violence.

It’s coming to a neighborhood near you if we don’t do something about it.

In 2017, the daughter of a woman who worked at our elementary school in California (and gave us our first school tour) got shot in the head with a bullet. The twenty-three year old was attending an outdoor concert in Las Vegas when a man fired more than 1000 bullets into the crowd. This young lady survived. Sixty (yes, that’s right, sixty) people did not. Four hundred and eleven people were wounded. Yes, you read that correctly.

Two weeks ago there was another shooting. Dr. John Cheng was shot and killed at a church in Southern California trying to disarm a man. He practiced in Aliso Viejo where we lived. The name was familiar and kept resonating with me. Yes, my daughters saw him on a couple of occasions at the medical center where he worked.

You’d be forgiven if you missed that because it was just two weeks ago. We’ve already moved on to be horrified by the numerous shootings since then. This was directly on the heels of the mass murder in Buffalo.

In fourteen days, we lost beloved community members, a well-respected Doctor and sweet, little school children. In a grocery store, church and elementary school. Places which were once considered safe. This is just a two week period.

Ten years ago when a gunman went on a rampage at Sandy Hook Elementary School my little niece and nephew were attending school in the neighboring town. They were in lockdown mode-as were many of the schools in the area. My niece was sent into a cubby and my nephew was under the desk. We were the lucky ones because we were able to celebrate Christmas together. The families of twenty innocent children, along with six adults, were not so fortunate. The entire community was reeling with horror and grief.

Ten years ago.

Could we have ever imagined something like that could happen again? And again? And again? And again? And again? And again? And again? And again?

The NRA held their convention just hours away from Uvalde. Prominent politicians continued to spew the same old canned responses while acknowledging the NRA is the backbone of their political movement. For those way in the back-I don’t need to spell this one out for you.

Fatherless children. Where are the parents? Arm the teachers. Have police on every campus. Video games are the cause. We don’t have a gun problem-we have a mental health problem. Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.

These are things we hear immediately after each and every American massacre. Along with the promise of many prayers.

Arm the teachers? I know plenty of teachers and they do not want to be armed. They already have an extremely difficult job.

Police on campus? Where on earth would we even find all these police for the 130, 930 public and private K-12 American schools? Or the nearly 4000 universities and colleges. What about all the other places massacres have occurred?

Mental health issues? Yes, no doubt we are experiencing an uptick in this area. And worsened by the isolation of Covid. I’m all for more focus on mental health issues. Especially in schools. Educate students on “if you see/hear something-say something.” Identify and address bullying. Care for our vulnerable youth.

Fatherless children? Not a new thing.

Where are the parents? Probably working most of the time. Especially if they have fatherless children.

Guns don’t kill people. Give me a guy with a knife in a crowd any day of the week. Let us all investigate stabbing massacres in the USA. It’s not our thing. Ask anyone around the world.

Canada is receiving flak for tough new limits on firearms because, in reality, they don’t want to end up like their neighbors to the South. In response, U.S. Senate Minority Leader stated, “There is no verifiable link between guns and shooting.” Wait, what? I’m no genius but that one flummoxed me. And if I wasn’t confused enough the Governor of Texas responded to the Canadian proposals, “Guns aren’t the problem. It’s doors.” Umm, okay.

When my family and I traveled (or lived) outside the USA many of my fellow Americans asked me this question. Time and time again.

“Is it safe there?”

Coming to a neighborhood near you.

https://www.everytown.org/

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Call Your Momma

A couple of weeks ago, a woman I worked with back in the AT&T days, passed away.

Suddenly.

One evening she was posting loving birthday wishes to her grandchild on Facebook. The next day at noon I was receiving texts from friends telling me that she had died.

Fifty years old.

Shocking.

But that is not the message I want to share in this post.

One of our mutual friends posted a thing on Facebook. On March 18th.

“For those who still have their mother.”

“Got some gossip? Call your momma. Bad day at work? Call your momma. Huge accomplishment? Call your momma. Someone hurt your feelings? Call your momma. You’re sick? Call your momma. Can’t remember how to cook something? Call your momma. Etc. “

You get the idea.

B. commented, “I needed to read this today. My mother and I had an argument a couple months back and we haven’t spoken. I think I’m going to send her a note today.”

A few of us responded with encouragement. Do it!

I said, “Better yet-call her!”

B. loved the feedback and said she would.

I privately messaged her that evening. Asking if she talked to her Mom. And she said, “Yes, it’s all good now. Thanks for the encouragement.”

Without going into details she said it was over something silly. And that she needed to accept her mother as she is and that she loved her.

And then she said, “My mom is 84 and lives in Florida so I would hv hated for something to happen and not hv reconciled.”

😦

Who would ever have thought that the fifty year old would be the one to leave so soon?

Another reminder. Life is very short. If you need to reach out to a loved one-there is no time like the present.

Because we don’t want to wait until there is no time.

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After The Casserole

When the death of George Floyd occurred I was outraged. Just like many American people. We watched him die. This was no video game. This was a living/dying nightmare.

So what can I do? As a white person?

I can march and show solidarity. That’s important.

But then what?

The way I view marches/protests is this. I liken it to a death.

Everyone gathers immediately to support the bereaved. Show up at the wake. Attend the funeral. Leave the casserole. Order flowers. Make a donation. Be the emotional support that the mourner needs at that very difficult time.

But then what?

Everyone goes back to their own lives. They’ve fulfilled their obligation. It’s just the way of things.

The mourner, however, is all alone-after a week of frenetic emotional activity. And their life is now very different.

Let’s all be mindful of the time ahead. That is when we will be needed and there will be plenty to do.

We cannot allow our flames of passion to be extinguished once the protests have stopped. Because if we do nothing then we are just waiting for the next death. That’s a guarantee.

The casserole is appreciated and necessary. But what happens after the casserole is also appreciated and necessary.

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Another One

Another obituary I thought was nicely done.

Back in September a friend of my husband’s family died in Connecticut. So I had a look at the write up. It listed the activities of an accomplished, active and hardworking woman.

It stated that the burial was private and there would be no calling hours.

Last line was this.

Audrey would rather you take a friend to lunch or reach out and perform some act of kindness.

I thought that was just lovely.

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The Latest

Well, hello there! I hope you are all well.

My apologies for being a slug and not writing sooner. Had a very busy summer. Not a moment to think! Don’t get me wrong. It was lovely and fun. Filled with family and friends. As well as new experiences. Just super busy.

I thought when I arrived here (in the U.S.) during the Spring that I would have all the time in the world.

Then I blinked and summer was gone. Just like that. Snap.

The original plan was to head back to Delhi, India at the end of September, hang out with my husband and begin exploring the country again with my newfound friends.

But we all know about plans. I suppose we need a constant reminder to always view them as fluid. And go with the flow.

We are happily repatriating after seven years of overseas living.

Do I wish I had more time in India? Yes, I do. I swear a person could spend a lifetime in India and not fully see or appreciate that amazing country. So diverse. Language, terrain, people, food, climate and especially the colors!

Some folks complain about moving. I get it. Each person and circumstance is different.

Fortunately, I am not one of them. I view our past moves as experiences that continually added depth and a ton of beautiful people to our lives.

I counted thirteen moves in our nearly thirty-two years of marriage. No, of course it’s not always Skittles and beer. Each and every move created indelible memories. Some happy and some sad. Leaving beloved family and friends. The excitement of exploring new places. A clean slate. Missing important family occasions. Adding new friends to the list. Losing people along the way.

Knowing that each move means you’re a little bit older and so is the generation before you. Everything changes and time does not stand still. At all.

I still do not have any regrets or complaints. Not even sure if this is our last move!

Below was the view from our balcony. Enjoying the calm before the packers got busy.

This last move was going according to plan. The fellas are punctual and ready to get cracking. I oversee the operation. Like they needed my assistance. 🙂

At the end of this first day we are at the hotel. My husband is visiting with a friend by the pool and telephones me. He is cheerful and says, “Come join us.”

I replied, “Be down in a jiff.”

Two minutes later, I am heading down the stairs and my mobile rings again. I was thinking, “Why on earth is he calling me again? I’m on my way already.”

I could tell something was wrong by the way he said my name. It was. He just got word that his mother had died in Syria. 😦 I think losing your mom has got to be one of the saddest things. Like it’s your mom. The only one you ever get.

That was a Tuesday and we were leaving India on Saturday in the wee hours. Honestly? This move, in a weird way, provided a huge distraction during a very sad time. Because we were in the midst of decisions and a constant state of busyness we were able to get through each day of this week without despair.

So this particular move will always be associated with the death of my mother-in-law. His mom, a beloved grandmother, mother-in-law and someone who has been a part of my own life history for more than thirty years. Still seems a bit surreal. I thought she was going to live forever.

But like all of our moves it is never about just one thing or feeling. There is now also some excitement. Starting a new chapter in my home state. We haven’t lived here since we left in 1994! So while it’s still familiar it has been awhile since we permanently hung our hats here. A lot has changed but it feels like we have sort of come full circle.

We are enjoying this transition back to the U.S. and enjoying the great (and clean) outdoors. Our air shipment (14 moving boxes-clothes, linens and personal items) arrived last Monday. The sea shipment (furniture and rest of it) will follow in the middle of November. I don’t care too much about “things” but I will be glad to have our photo albums, framed pics, art, personal papers and family history back with us.

I feel so very fortunate. It’s like my being has absorbed all of the people and experiences on this twenty-four year journey through Texas, California, Malaysia and India. So that I can always carry these people and places with me. Ensuring that I will never forget any of them.

So that’s my news. This is where I am. You are officially updated.

I look forward to working on this blog with more frequency. Lots of writing to be done.

Enjoy the rest of your week.

 

 

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A Cousin

“A cousin is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.”

I’ve read that quote more than once and I believe this to be the absolute truth. You all know how I feel about family. If we share the same blood/family we are members of a very special club. Ain’t nobody getting kicked out of it. Even if we no longer see each other very often.

I have more than twenty-five first cousins. But when I was a kid most lived in Ireland and some in England.

So, sadly, I didn’t share a childhood with all of my cousins. But that was just reality.

The ones who I did share my childhood with consisted of three families who lived in the U.S. like me.

They were my Dad’s sister, Rose Marie and her family in New York. In Rhode Island we had the families of Mom’s sister, Patsy and her brother, Jimmy.

Summer holidays and other times during the year were spent with the New York cousins.

Christmas, Easter, cookouts and regular Sunday visits to the grandparents were spent with the Rhode Island cousins.

Oh, what fun we had when we were young.

There were the older cousins in our (my brothers and me) age range and then a few younger ones came along in the 1970s. That was pretty exciting for us. Everyone liked babies and they were just absorbed. Welcomed into the fold.

That’s the funny thing about babies. They are not like the future in-laws who take awhile to break into the family. To be a part of the club and inner circle. Going through the initiation and all.

But a baby? Born into the family? The bouncer just lets that little bundle of joy right into the club! Like a celebrity with status. No stopping at the door, stamping its hand or questioning their right to be there. They’re totally in!

One of my baby cousins died on March 18th. John was just shy of his forty-seventh birthday. He will be interred tomorrow with his beloved mother.

I last saw him when he made the trip to Rhode Island for my Dad’s funeral three years ago. Even though it was a sad time I was really happy to see him and so many family members. These days everyone lives in different places and reunions are not always easy or frequent. So weddings and funerals are the “go to” places for the big catch ups.

John was a beautiful child. An adorable kid with a mop of curly red hair. He was intelligent and good humored. He was a nice and decent boy who grew up to be a nice and decent man.

He died young. Too young.

For the record, I think all deaths under the age of eighty are sort of tragic.

Today is no different.

John died because he was a human being. Lest we forget -we are all afflicted with that title.

A death reminds us that we are all human. Some might dodge the bullets of life. Others aren’t so fortunate and get hit head on. But we all know, really, that sometimes we just have no say or control. Our expiration date, like a milk carton, might (I say might) have been printed long ago. Even if we argue or beg that it could have been/should have been different.

It’s still tragic. It’s heartbreaking and sad.

One of the benefits of being in the cousins’ club is that there is only love. No jealousy or judgement. We’re family and are grateful for the shared and special memories. We take joy in the success and happiness of each other. We are sympathetic when one is experiencing family problems, job loss, illness and other maladies of life.

There is profound and utter sadness when we lose one of our gang.

When John was a baby I was sleeping at his house one weekend. Poor little thing couldn’t pronounce my name (Mary Beth) but he tried. In the morning I heard a little voice coming from the crib, “Maybell?”

Since then it’s been “ours” and we didn’t ever let it go.

So every year on our birthdays and other Facebook messages we used Maybell instead of my real name. Now, I’m wondering if he actually ever knew what my real name was.

Anyway, it was like we were little kids. He in his forties and me in my fifties. In a way, a simple word brought us back in time and kept us young. Even if it was for a minute. It was a shared memory.

See, because a cousin is a little piece of childhood that can never be lost.

John will always and forever be a part of my childhood that can never be lost.

We will miss you, John. Rest in peace. Like one of your sisters said, “Rest is not so easy right now on this side of Heaven.”

The club will no longer be the same, little cousin.

With all my love,

Maybell

 

 

In memory of John J. Kelly

1971-2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Not Old News

A friend and I were recently discussing a guy who grew up in our neighborhood.

When Kyle left to serve his country in Vietnam I would have been about five years old. He was eighteen or nineteen. Same age as my youngest daughter who is now in her first year of university.

Kyle was not the only young boy from the neighborhood who went to Southeast Asia during that time.

Of course, I don’t remember when they left. I was too young.

I do have memories of when the American boys came back. Watched the grainy news footage on television with my family. Of planes on the runway depositing our men. No longer youthful.

I remember the POW bracelets that people bought and promised to wear until the service people captured or missing came home. I heard all of the scary stories. I remember that it was a time of protest. I remember who served in Vietnam.

War is horrific and I cannot wrap my head around it. But some wars are worse than others. The Vietnam War would be one of those filed under “worse than others.”

The “lucky” ones came back.

My next door neighbor, Dick, came back home. With a terribly scarred face and a black eye patch covering the socket.

Pretty frightening to see when you are a kid.

Wait, he was only a kid when his life was in such peril. So how freaking frightened was he?

Kyle also made it back home.

But some scars are visible and some are not.

Kyle was a cousin of our friends and he lived across the street on the corner. I would see him around but actually only met him in my teen years. The age difference and all. I didn’t know him well but he seemed like a nice guy. Good humored. Cute in a long, shaggy hair, five o’clock shadow way. Remember a bunch of us at a party and having some good laughs. He was in college and studying theater then. A group of us attended a Shakespeare performance of his at Rhode Island College.

Kyle died, one year ago, at the age of sixty-six. The cause of his death was the Vietnam War. He was exposed to deadly chemicals during his time there. Everyone has heard of Agent Orange. For Kyle, chronic illness and an early death were the results of his exposure to it. I’d say he died from friendly fire.

Just like using a jug of Round-Up. Spray and kill. These chemical weapons (that is what they were) would be dumped on vast areas from planes and defoliation took place. Benefits were two fold. 1) No bad guys can hide in the jungles or forests without the cover of green canopy. 2) Kill all the crops so the bad guys will starve and die.

Obviously, Agent Orange was just one piece of the huge horror show called Vietnam. But its harm continues to reverberate to this day.

The spraying didn’t help. It only hurt. The destroyed crops led to widespread famine and innocent civilians starved to death. The environment was damaged. Our boys came home and began to get sick. Every spray inflicted harm. Illness, genetic damage and death were all a part of its ripple effect. The U.S., Vietnam and other countries who were exposed during the war all suffer the effects.

This could be viewed as old news. But it’s not. It’s continuing news. Because people are still dying. Kyle did.

We sent our fresh faced boys into a jungle war that they had no chance of winning. No one came out of it unscathed. Those who did make it home were changed and scarred, one way or another, for the rest of their lives.

That is our history and our responsibility.

I suppose, in a way, this is a posthumous thank you to Kyle for his sacrifices. Tinged with sorrow for his suffering. It shouldn’t have ended like that. Terribly unfair.

A thank you to all the young boys who left our neighborhoods. Those who made it back home and those who didn’t. Bless them all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Broken Rituals

About six months ago my husband told me about a Parsi funeral ritual that takes place in India. I had never heard of it.

Parsi is a Zoroastrian community. These folks from Greater Iran fled mostly to India centuries ago to avoid persecution and to retain their religious identity during the Muslim conquest of Persia. Zoroastrianism was the dominant religion before Islam.

That’s just a snippet of a history that could fill books.

Ain’t gonna lie. I was horrified when I heard about their funeral practice.

Sky burial.

Letting nature take its course. No burial. No cremation. Just exposure to the elements on an elevated area. Cutting up bits of the body for the vultures to feast.

Towers of Silence.

I was soon reading about different rituals. It appears that there are many reasons for this Sky burial. Tibetan Buddhists feel it is a generosity for the departed because it’s providing life source for other creatures and they respect all life. Some feel that the body is only a vessel. That fire and burial pollute the earth. Some view the dead body as impure.

Practicality, rather than religion, might have also played a role. The places where these rituals originated tended to be rocky with no source of timber.

India’s pretty cool in a lot of ways. It’s just so diverse and in many ways tolerant of other practices.

This ritual still takes place today.

But there is one small problem. Well, not really small.

The vulture population declined drastically. The birds (the cleaner uppers) were getting sick from eating the carrion of Indian livestock.

Hmmmm.

I learned more about vultures than I ever cared to imagine.

Since it’s India (Hindu) there are 500 million cattle and only 4% of that number is for human consumption. Cows are considered sacred so most people aren’t eating them.

That’s a bunch of cows.

So when cattle die the vultures are a welcome sight. A natural and efficient process.

But due to an anti-inflammatory drug which was being given to the cattle the vultures started dying in droves. Their system couldn’t take this particular drug.

By now I am not thinking about funeral practices at all because I am so fascinated by vultures!

Apparently vultures can make efficient, quick work of any animal carcass and due to their metabolism not suffer the effects of (or carry) any pathogens from their recent meal. Stops with them.

Wow! Truly cast iron stomachs. Except for when humans inject animals with a certain drug.

This decline in the vulture population has led to a host of problems for India.

Huge problems. It was a natural system. And when things break down….

In the 1980s there were 80 million vultures. Today several thousand. That’s unbelievable.

Vultures used to pick clean the carcasses in no time. Now the dead cows and other animals rot in village fields.

Contaminating the drinking water.

And if there are no vultures on the scene? Who takes their place in this pecking order? No pun intended. Who’s on deck?

Rats and wild dogs (India has 18 million wild dogs-seems like about a million on our street alone lol) are all too happy to step into the newly opened positions. But they, unlike vultures, do carry things like rabies, anthrax and plague. And pass it on to us. The humans. Yikes!

Back to the Parsi death rituals. They are still performed but not with the same frequency due to the decrease in the vulture population. Some people are opting for cremation. Those who choose the “old way” will be doing so with the assistance of solar reflectors to move things along. Remember when you were a kid with a magnifying glass trying to use the sun’s reflection to burn a piece of paper. Yeah, that. Same.

I never knew anything about the Towers of Silence. And I did not know much about vultures except maybe seeing them as a menacing backdrop in cute Disney movies. Or observing a turkey vulture munching on roadkill that one time in Lake Tahoe while we whizzed by it.

Pretty amazing to think about it. One small bit of human tinkering can upset a system that has been working just fine. Maybe from the beginning of time. Compromising the health of a nation. And in the process eradicating rituals that have been around for centuries and centuries.

First I was horrified to hear of the Parsi practice. Then I moved on to understanding and sort of appreciating it. I remain sad about the Indian vulture crisis and its effect on the nation.

Lastly, I’m feeling more than a little sympathetic for the Parsi community as they lose a grip on pieces of their tradition and identity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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No Road Map

We have all heard that there is no road map for grief. So it can be a difficult and tricky course for many to navigate.

Each of us is like a snowflake. Unique. Just like our grief is unique and how we deal with our loss.

I remember one of my aunts, after losing her husband, telling me that she just kept herself busy, busy and busy. In hindsight she thinks maybe she kept herself too busy.

Another aunt was told to travel after the loss of her spouse. And she did. Accepted every invitation.

Just two examples among many.

Everyone takes a different course to find their way through grief and find their way back again. To discover their new normal.

Life is never the same when we lose a loved one. That is a fact.

The same aunt who was “too busy” wrote those exact words to me in a letter after my uncle Stiophan died.

“Life will never be the same.”

And it wasn’t. But that didn’t mean that life couldn’t be good for her again.

A friend, Donna B., had shared a website this morning on Facebook and I thought it was interesting. Shows another way of dealing with grief.

The owner of the website lost her mother, who was in her fifties, to early onset Alzheimer’s. Her aunt stepped in as surrogate mom but she, too, would soon fall victim to the same disease and be gone within a year.

Here is her website.

https://griefbiscuit.com/

I thought I would share it with you. Who knows? Maybe it will help someone through the upcoming holidays. Or the next six months. The year.

There are also some tips and tools on the site designed to help those who are grieving. I particularly liked, “Be the Sherpa.”

Wishing peace and comfort to all of those who are suffering this holiday season. Now and in the new year.

 

 

 

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