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Angel P. Years ago, I lived on a barrier island downriver from

Savannah, GA. Across the salt marsh from my home was an even smaller rental house, but it was in serious need of paint, roofing, and more. Pete, Angel, and their infant daughter Ally lived there, struggling to make ends meet from his earnings as a guitar-hero, playing in local bars. Pete was in his 30s and investing what little was left over from drinking and smoking in pressing his records. He never "made it," and his wife left him several years later, taking the child with her. Fast-forward a few years: my place of employment hired a bookkeeper, it was Angel: she'd learned that skill. Unfortunately, though her financial life radically had improved, her drinking, sadly, had not. Sometime after I left Savannah, a mutual friend advised me she was dying from cirrhosis; she was on a liver transplant list, but way down it and not expected to survive long enough.
Then, a couple of months later, the unexpected happened: she somehow was boosted up the ladder, got the transplant. She switched occupations and became the manager of a media company. A few more years went by and I got a call from Ally, now a college student: Angel had died, could I attend the funeral? She had died of liver failure. She had continued to drink after the transplant.


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Topic - Angel P. Years ago, I lived on a barrier island downriver from - tinear 07:09:47 05/31/21 (8)

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