We lost my husband's mother on May 14th of 2016.  This year, the anniversary of that date just happens to be Mother's Day.  

A year ago now, she was in hospice waiting-sometimes impatiently-for the end to arrive.  She endured knowing that the too-quiet room was the place which would be her last destination here on earth.  

Always the good soldier, she ate a little because she knew she should more than because she was hungry.  There was wine at happy hour with a little snack.  It was the one bright spot in her day.

We tried to think of other things she might enjoy in those final weeks.  I expect we were trying to comfort ourselves as much or maybe more than to comfort her.  When the curtain starts to fall, there isn't much you can do to light the stage anymore.  It only grows darker as it inches toward the floor.  In the fading light, we searched half-heartedly for a brief glimpse of the life which had unfolded behind that curtain--to remind her and to remember.  It only grew dimmer.    

It wasn't as she would have had it.  She likely would have preferred one last glance at the countryside or at least to be able to see the finale of Dancing with The Stars and then contentedly drift off to sleep to awake on the other side. At least then there would have been a proper finale, a satisfying resolution, and maybe even a symbolic end to the journey.  It was her way to know the schedule, to have a plan, to complete the circle, and to get on with it already.  It didn't work out that way.  

Instead, the curtain continued to ebb and inch its way down with no particular pattern or rate of specific decline.  There was an uncertain certainty clouding every minute.

As the days melted into each other, she grew more despondent, more frustrated and less engaged.  Then, the day before she died we had that Golden Day of legend.  She was alert again, happy again, her humor cutting through the medication designed to keep her comfortable and sedate.  We were reminded that sedate was not her natural state.

She laughed.  She teased us.  She reminisced, telling us that once upon a time a long time ago someone told her she was the prettiest woman at the phone company where she worked.  I have no doubt that was true.

The next afternoon the curtain brushed the floor over a two hour period until finally it fell no more. She went to sleep for the last time.

I called her Mom.  Even when my own mom was still alive, I did.  It's strange to think that just a year ago now I was able to say, "Happy Mother's Day, Mom," and that it was the last time I ever would--to anyone. That curtain has fallen now, too.

I posted this poem last year on social media for her though it wasn't a video then.  I wrote it a long time ago for her birthday, printed it and framed it.  She hung it on her wall.  She asked me why I had posted it last year, just days before she passed away.  I only said, "Because it's Mother's Day".   It was all I could think to do for her then.

It still is.

Miss you, Mom.