1  

                                                                                                             The  second  anniversary    

It  was  an  unusually  refreshing  August  day.  The  feel  of  spring  was  in  the  air;  

odd  given  autumn  lay  just  around  the  corner.  This  time  of  the  year  when  

temperatures  regularly  stifle  in  the  hundreds  and  the  haze  of  distant  wildfires  settle  

into  our  valley,  the  air  this  day  had  been  scrubbed  clean  and  fresh.  Brilliant  

billowing  puffs  dot  the  interminable  blue  sky,  the  cool  breeze  slowly  pushing  them  

about  high  above  our  heads.  This  was  the  kind  of  day  that  draws  you  outside  to  

marvel  in  its  beauty,  but  this  day  was  not  to  be  spent  outside;  this  would  become  the  

day  we  lost  our  way.    

  I  was  at  the  airport  waiting  to  gather  my  aunt  and  uncle  when  the  call  came  

through.  We  thought  this  week  would  be  spent  reminiscing  with  moments  of  

constrained  laughter  over  happier  times  while  gently  mourning  the  quickly  

approaching  end  to  a  life  we  so  cherished.  Each  time  I  walk  through  the  airport  now  

my  eyes  wander  to  the  spot  I  became  paralyzed  and  unable  to  rise  after  hearing  the  

words  “Gather  your  family,  it  won’t  be  long.”  It  would  be  far  too  dramatic  and  

untruthful  to  say  I  had  fallen  to  my  knees  upon  hearing  the  news.  No,  I  was  simply  

kneeling  down  riffling  frantically  through  my  purse  where  my  phone  lay  hidden  

before  the  call  was  lost.  There  was  shrill  urgency  behind  each  ring  in  those  days,  

dreading  the  call  that  had  finally  come.  In  the  span  of  one  short  sentence  my  world  

began  to  complete  its  tilt.  I  believe  I  uttered  something  about  being  at  the  airport  

retrieving  family  members  and  we  would  arrive  shortly.  Panic  sets  in;  my  greatest  

fear  of  late  had  been  she  would  die  alone.  Could  the  end  come  so  quickly?  What  if  no  

  2  

one  reached  her  in  time?  How  could  the  impending  end  be  so  close  and  I  feel  so  ill  

prepared?  

I  called  the  older  of  my  brothers,  the  one  who  seems  to  handle  stress  as  

easily  as  a  fish  swims  through  water.  I  asked  him  to  call  our  younger  brother  and  

break  the  news;  I  knew  I  would  lose  all  composure  had  I  been  the  one  to  pass  on  the  

news  that  the  end  was  here.  I  needed  in  that  moment,  amongst  the  bustle  of  

travelers,  to  somehow  hold  it  together.  Tears  fell  frequently  and  freely  in  those  days  

but  I  would  do  most  anything  to  avoid  them  in  public.  The  torrents  held  at  bay  until  I  

find  my  way  to  a  space  of  solitude  away  from  prying  eyes.  Why  do  we  have  this  need  

to  shield  the  outside  from  our  inner  sorrow  and  mourn  in  private  as  if  our  tears  and  

emotions  are  shameful?  Our  youngest  brother  is  hours  away  and  mom  had  worried  

most  ardently  about  him  and  now  I  worry  if  he  will  get  here  in  time  to  say  goodbye.  

Upon  learning  cancer  had  returned,  this  time  in  another  location,  another  form,  

another  lifetime,  her  fear  first  voiced  was  for  that  of  her  youngest  and  how  he  would  

take  the  news?    

The  telephone  chain  was  set  into  motion  as  I  waited  crouched  in  my  little  ball  

trying  to  figure  out  how  to  tell  mom’s  siblings  that  we  needed  to  move  quickly.  How  

do  I  tell  them  this  will  not  be  the  visit  anticipated?  My  panic  grows.  What  about  a  

priest?  Mom  needs  the  last  rights,  mom  would  want  this  sacrament,  is  she  of  the  

right  mind  to  ask,  is  she  even  conscious,  does  she  know  the  end  is  near?  I  knew  

nothing;  I  had  asked  nothing,  I  was  too  stunned  to  think  of  asking  anything.  It  is  

amazing  how  the  brain  can  momentarily  shut  down  when  overwhelmed  to  be  

  3  

replaced  seconds  later  with  thoughts  ricocheting  at  warp  speed  around  your  brain.    

I  have  no  idea  what  the  church’s  phone  number  is;  I  am  too  frantic  to  figure  out  how  

to  dial  directory  assistance.  My  mental  rolodex  flips  through  friends  I  could  call  for  

assistance  but  those  calls  would  all  require  an  explanation,  an  opportunity  for  the  

waterworks  to  spring  forth  and  I’m  not  ready  for  this.  In  the  end  it  seemed  simplest  

to  just  hit  redial.  I  call  back  the  person  that  had  made  this  grim  prediction,  barraging  

the  hapless  receptionist  with  demands  that  a  priest  be  summoned  at  once.  

I  spot  my  aunt  coming  down  the  hall  alongside  her  brother  being  pushed  in  a  

wheelchair  by  an  attendant.  I  am  finally  able  to  pull  myself  into  an  upright  position.  

My  aunt,  for  whom  my  middle  name  was  plucked  takes  one  look  at  my  face  and  

knows  all  is  not  well.  I  explain  the  call  I  had  just  received  and  that  we  must  go  

straight  to  the  nursing  home.    

A  few  days  prior  to  her  brother  and  sister’s  arrival  mom  had  been  moved  out  

of  the  cavernous  sterile  room  devoid  of  warmth  or  sense  of  home  she  had  been  

sharing  to  an  equally  large  private  room  complete  with  a  sitting  area  to  

accommodate  those  coming  by  to  bid  farewell.  Is  this  the  room  where  they  send  you  

to  die?  In  all  the  months  I  had  spent  walking  those  halls  how  had  I  never  noticed  this  

room?  Is  the  door  perennially  shut  to  the  outside  shielding  those  grieving  on  the  

other  side  of  the  door?    

Mom  hadn’t  wanted  to  leave  her  last  friend  and  roommate.  They  had  become  

accustomed  to  looking  out  for  each  other  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when  the  nurses  

where  scarce  and  the  pain  fierce.  Taking  turns  ringing  their  buzzers  in  hopes  

  4  

someone  would  show  up  to  assist  the  other.  I  can  still  hear  the  fervent  morning  

reports;  “Your  mother  suffered  so  last  night  and  we  rang  and  rang  and  it  took  so  long  

for  help  to  arrive.”  Now  mom  lay  alone  at  night  in  a  slender  single  bed  in  this  place  

she  disliked  in  the  body  that  had  failed  her  so.    

Nobody  was  deceived  into  believing  the  end  wasn’t  approaching;  we  just  

didn’t  think  it  would  arrive  this  quickly.  We  thought  at  worst  we  had  weeks,  maybe  

we  would  be  blessed  with  a  month  or  two,  but  not  mere  hours.  I  think  mostly  we  

tried  not  to  think  about  it;  we  certainly  had  not  been  unable  to  discuss  the  

impending  end.  We  had  hoped  she  could  have  been  granted  even  a  short  respite  free  

from  the  pain  that  had  engulfed  her  the  past  6  months.  Surgery  just  weeks  earlier  

had  promised  relief  yet  failed  to  deliver.  I  had  thought  of  bringing  her  home  for  the  

end  and  hiring  nurses  to  assist  in  her  care.  She  had  said,  as  many  do  well  before  the  

actual  possibility  arises,  that  the  last  place  they  ever  wanted  to  end  up  was  a  nursing  

home.  “Put  me  out  of  my  misery  before  I  end  up  in  one  of  those  places”  the  healthy  

muse.  I  am  sorry  mom,  I  am  sorry  I  couldn’t  rescue  you  from  this  place,  I  am  sorry  

there  was  no  more  time  left  to  bring  you  home.  

We  arrived  to  find  the  oldest  brother  at  mom’s  side  with  evidence  of  recent  

tears  upon  his  face.  Thank  God  he  arrived  so  quickly  and  she  was  not  alone.  With  

her  siblings  in  tow  we  approach  and  in  her  typical  fashion  she  apologizes  for  

bringing  us  together  like  this.  Her  voice  is  but  a  mere  whisper  as  her  breath  rattles  

with  effort.  Did  she  realize  the  evening  before  when  I  had  visited  that  the  end  was  so  

near?  I  think  she  did,  I  wish  I  had.  I  regret  not  spending  that  last  night  by  her  side,  I  

  5  

regret  not  spending  every  last  moment  together  telling  her  how  much  I  loved  her,  

how  she  shaped  the  woman  I  had  become.  How  I  long  now  to  thank  her  for  her  

innumerable  sacrifices,  the  unwavering  faith  and  unconditional  love  she  bestowed  

on  all  of  her  children.  I  believe  her  gruff  German  nurse  had  been  trying  to  gently  tell  

us  the  end  was  very  near  that  last  night  as  we  embraced  and  cried.  The  regret  over  

words  left  unspoken  lingers  to  this  day.  

Soon  the  room  is  crowded  with  gathered  loved  ones;  all  whom  you  she  held  

dear  are  here  except  for  my  son  whom  had  said  his  goodbye  just  days  earlier  before  

heading  back  to  college.  I  couldn’t  accompany  him  on  that  last  visit,  the  final  

farewell.  I  couldn’t  watch  my  son  say  goodbye  and  walk  away  knowing  he  would  

never  again  see  the  woman  that  had  witnessed  him  come  into  the  world.  He  didn’t  

ask  me  to  be  there  with  him  and  I  couldn’t  offer.  Perhaps  he  knew  my  heart  would  

break  irreparably  as  a  witness  to  this  or  maybe  he  felt  as  a  young  adult  it  was  

something  he  had  to  do  alone.  Mom  reveled  in  all  her  grandchildren,  but  the  bond  

between  she  and  her  first  was  immense.  His  first  words  where  mama  for  grandma  

and  mommy  for  me,  to  the  casual  observer  one  in  the  same,  to  the  three  of  us  very  

distinct.    His  first  year  spent  in  the  embrace  of  two  women  that  loved  him  without  

reserve,  the  first  grandbaby  to  capture  her  heart.  Mom  was  his  constant  cheerleader  

as  well  as  relief  pitcher  when  this  single  mom  needed  a  moment  to  breath.  The  pride  

in  her  children  and  grandchildren  was  palpable;  the  delight  radiated  as  she  held  

each  new  grandchild  for  the  first  time  is  forever  engraved  in  our  hearts.    

  6  

My  youngest  brother  and  his  newly  minted  fiancé  make  it  in  record  time  just  

as  the  young  Polish  priest  arrived  to  administer  last  rites.  I  have  never  witnessed  

this  Catholic  ritual  given  to  the  dying.  He  explains  he  does  it  a  bit  differently,  as  done  

in  his  country,  with  our  active  participation.  Mom  is  propped  up  in  bed,  her  eyes  as  

clear  and  blue  as  the  sky  outside  as  she  hangs  on  every  word  the  priest  intones.  It  

was  beautiful;  she  is  placid,  claiming  her  readiness  to  meet  her  maker.  I  didn’t  know  

what  to  do  when  it  was  over  other  than  wipe  my  tears,  hug,  and  thank  the  priest.  We  

found  out  later  this  young  priest  had  visited  mom  numerous  times  during  the  

preceding  months,  none  of  us  had  known  of  his  visits.  

Mom  wasn’t  lucid  much  longer.  I  got  my  son  on  the  phone  and  broke  the  

news  to  him.  I  held  the  phone  to  his  grandmother’s  ear  and  I  can  hear  my  son  tell  

her  how  greatly  she  is  loved.  She  really  isn’t  speaking  at  this  point  and  cannot  reply  

as  I  watch  the  tears  well  in  her  eyes.  In  silence  she  scans  the  room,  holding  each  of  

our  faces  in  her  loving  gaze  one  last  time  before  passing  into  a  slumber  where  she  

remained  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  and  into  the  evening.    

 My  son  doesn’t  understand  the  rapid  descent,  neither  do  we.  Just  a  week  

prior  and  with  herculean  effort  we  had  sprung  mom  from  this  dreary  place  of  wide  

sterile  hallways  littered  about  with  abandoned  wheelchair  bound  patients  hoping  

someone  will  come  along  and  push  them  to  the  destination  which  lays  beyond  their  

strength.  Mom  had  grown  use  to  life  in  a  wheelchair,  transportation  provided  in  

specially  equipped  vehicles  and  being  moved  as  little  as  possible  and  then  only  by  

trained  orderlies.  Muscles  now  atrophied  and  beyond  use  she  had  given  up  hope  of  

  7  

rehabilitation;  it  was  simply  too  much.  Her  pain  dulled,  yet  never  escaped.  A  

constant  administration  of  pain  meds:  Fentanyl  patches,  Oxycontin  and  morphine  

(not  one  at  a  time  mind  you  but  all  three  together)  the  likes  of  which  would  knock  a  

grown  man  to  his  butt,  yet  barely  dented  the  pain  her  shrinking  100  pound  body  

felt.  Her  fear  of  falling  or  being  moved  incorrectly  was  so  immense  it  took  much  

convincing  and  a  group  lesson  with  the  physical  therapist  to  coax  her  into  leaving  

the  safe  confines  of  the  nursing  home  for  an  evening  at  home;  our  last  supper.  

We  gathered  around  the  table  this  last  Sunday  evening  as  we  had  so  many  

times  before.  Her  children  now  grown  and  in  homes  of  their  own,  with  families  of  

their  own,  we  would  be  summoned  to  gather  around  her  table  when  she  deemed  we  

had  been  apart  too  long.  Her  calls  came  with  expected  regularity,  the  gathering  of  

her  flock  along  with  our  father,  her  ex-­‐husband,  to  share  a  meal.  We  tried  to  make  

this  last  meal  festive.  A  glass  of  chardonnay  was  proffered  after  being  denied  for  so  

many  months  but  now  along  with  her  appetite  went  her  taste  for  wine.  She  took  one  

sip,  shuddered,  and  asked  us  to  take  it  away.  I  couldn’t  tell  you  what  I  cooked  for  

dinner  that  last  night,  but  I  do  remember  the  difficulty  swallowing  past  the  lumps  

welling  in  my  throat  as  the  reality  of  the  situation  settles  uncomfortably  in.  We  

would  excuse  ourselves  periodically  when  efforts  to  covertly  wipe  a  tear  fail  and  our  

emotions  needed  taming  in  private.  The  last  pictures  where  snapped  as  food  sat  

untouched  on  plates.    At  the  head  of  the  table  she  presided  in  tranquil  repose,  the  

long  absent  smile  now  replaced  the  grimaces  of  pain  we  had  become  so  accustomed  

to  as  she  beams  at  her  assembled  brood.  We  thought  there  would  have  at  least  one  

  8  

more  dinner  together  when  her  brother  and  sister  arrived  days  later;  no  one  

realized  this  Sunday  evening  that  the  end  looming  so  near.    

I  felt  so  alone  this  last  day  surrounded  by  my  family  as  my  son  sits  in  the  

solitude  of  his  own  sorrow  a  thousand  miles  away.  In  our  own  private  grief  mom  

now  appears  at  peace.  She  had  spent  her  last  six  months  in  excruciating  pain  and  

this  last  day  finally  dis-­‐enslaved  of  pain  and  drug  free;  God’s  final  gift?  The  nurses  

keep  trying  to  administer  morphine  and  while  she  is  awake,  she  waves  them  off.  

When  she  can  no  longer  speak  for  herself,  we  tell  them  no.  I  think  we  are  all  wishing  

for  that  last  splendid  moment,  the  one  so  often  portrayed  in  the  movies,  when  the  

dying  are  suddenly  clear  headed  and  strongly  willed,  imparting  their  final  words  of  

love  and  wisdom.  If  we  were  to  be  blessed  with  such  a  gift  we  didn’t  want  morphine  

clouding  the  way,  especially  as  she  appeared  to  be  pain  free  at  last.  

The  atmosphere  that  day  took  on  a  carnival  quality  at  times.  Too  many  

people,  too  much  noise,  pizza  was  ordered.  Some  are  loud  and  boisterous,  begging  

to  be  heard  above  the  fray  as  the  volume  in  the  room  increased.  I  think  dying  should  

be  peaceful,  less  chaotic.  I  silently  pray  when  it’s  my  time  it  is  not  at  all  like  this  with  

reverence  lost  and  forgotten.  My  youngest  brother  reads  bible  passages  to  her  

slumbering  body  in  an  attempt  to  bring  decorum  back  as  I  spent  that  last  day  

watching  her  face.  Eyes  now  forever  closed  to  the  world  around  her,  sly  smiles  

crossing  her  face  at  moments  as  I  wonder  what  is  going  on  in  her  mind,  where  is  

she?  My  eyes  attempt  to  etch  a  permanent  rendering  of  her  features  upon  my  mind.  

As  I  watch  her  eyes  flit  back  and  forth  behind  closed  lids  I  wonder  if  it  is  as  they  say  

  9  

and  your  life  does  flash  before  your  eyes?  The  window  had  been  opened  to  let  in  the  

gentle  and  unexpectedly  cool  August  breeze.  In  all  the  time  she  had  been  there  I  

don’t  remember  a  window  opened  to  catch  the  breeze  and  its  feeble  attempt  to  

chase  away  the  smell  of  disease  and  death  that  lingers  in  the  corners  like  dust  motes  

forever  pushed  about,  never  captured,  and  never  disposed  of.  

 It  is  evening  now  and  someone  turns  on  the  TV,  the  Olympics  are  on.  Please  

turn  this  off,  how  could  anyone  pass  on  in  this  bedlam?  This  is  too  much  and  I  leave  

for  a  half  an  hour  or  so  and  hope  order  will  overtake  the  room  in  my  absence,  but  

again  I  panic,  what  if  I’m  not  there  and  I  quickly  return.  Mom  appears  oblivious  to  

the  commotion  but  no  one  ever  knows  for  sure  do  they?  A  friend  stops  by  to  visit  

unaware  of  the  vigil  taking  place  and  time  marches  forward.  I  don’t  call  her  friends  

to  tell  them  what  is  happening,  what  would  I  say?  “Do  you  want  to  come  by  and  

watch  her  die?”  She  wouldn’t  want  this.  

It  has  been  a  long  day,  especially  for  those  that  have  traveled  cross-­‐county  to  

see  her  and  most  visitors  have  now  drifted  away  for  the  evening.  Her  sister  and  

brother  have  been  deposited  at  mom’s  long  empty  house  for  a  nights  rest.  My  niece  

wants  to  spend  the  night  in  the  room  with  grandma  like  it  is  some  odd  sleepover.  

There  are  vehement  objections  to  her  staying.  We  all  realize  how  she  loves  her  

grandmother,  but  this  may  not  be  something  for  her  to  see.  We  don’t  know  how  it  

will  happen,  will  it  be  peaceful  or  painful,  could  it  even  go  on  for  days?  Her  father  

takes  her  away  and  we  all  wish  someone  else  had,  we  wish  he  had  instead  remained  

with  us.  

  10  

My  youngest  brother  sits  on  one  side  of  the  slim  hospital  bed  with  me  on  the  

other  in  the  quiet  stillness  of  this  cool  August  night.  One  single  floor  lamp  in  the  

corner  illuminates  the  now  quiet  room.  Each  of  us  is  holding  a  cool  soft  hand  that  

had  a  lifetime  ago  soothed  fevered  brows,  whisked  away  tears  and  wiped  smudges  

from  grimy  puerile  faces.  Always  firmly  clutching  our  little  hands  as  we  crossed  

busy  streets  delivering  us  safely  to  the  other  side,  now  it  was  our  turn  to  hold  her  

hand,  ready  to  deliver  her  safely  to  the  other  side.    

In  no  more  than  five  minutes  after  the  room  had  been  cleared  her  breathing  

visibly  changed,  less  labored,  slower,  calmer.  To  this  day  I  believe  Mom  was  

protecting  her  granddaughter;  she  did  not  want  her  to  be  frightened  or  scarred  by  

the  memory  of  her  last  breath,  so  she  waited  until  she  was  gone.  Above  all  else  the  

job  she  cherished  most  was  that  of  mother  and  grandmother  and  part  of  that  job  

was  protector.  I  am  sorry  her  oldest  son  wasn’t  with  us;  he  should  have  been  there,  

just  the  three  she  had  ushered  into  the  world  now  escorting  her  out.  I  am  envious  of  

the  quiet  time  he  had  with  her  that  last  day  before  we  all  descended.  I  wish  we  all  

had  had  a  few  minutes  alone,  bathed  in  our  mothers  love  and  presence  that  final  day  

to  say  our  private  goodbyes.  

The  youngest,  the  one  mom  had  so  fretted  about  was  now  the  one  that  

appears  so  strong  and  resilient,  gently  telling  her  “We  are  ok,  you  can  leave  us  now.”  

He  thanked  her  for  the  wonderful  job  she  had  done  as  a  human  and  most  

importantly  to  us  as  a  mother.  I  am  incapable  of  opening  my  mouth;  I  don’t  trust  

myself  to  speak.  She  takes  a  long  breath  and  then  nothing  as  we  intently  hold  our  

  11  

own  as  we  wait  to  see  if  another  one  comes  and  it  does.  Then  one  more  single  

breathe  and  she  is  gone.  If  I  had  been  alone  with  her  I  am  afraid  I  would  have  started  

crying  aloud  the  words  reverberating  in  my  head  “Please  don’t  leave  me,  please  

don’t  leave  me,  I  can’t  do  this  without  you!”  I’m  afraid  I  would  have  selfishly  begged  

her  to  not  leave  and  perhaps  she  would  have  lingered  longer.  As  much  as  I  was  

unprepared,  she  was  ready  and  at  10:15  pm  she  gently  left  us,  her  beauty  lost  

forever  to  the  world  only  to  remain  forever  in  our  hearts.  

She  never  awoke  that  last  day;  never  spoke  a  final  time  as  we  had  longed  she  

would.  It  has  been  two  years  since  I’ve  heard  her  voice.  A  video  shot  nearly  a  year  to  

the  day  prior  to  her  death  sits  unwatched  on  the  shelf.  I  have  been  unable  to  bring  

myself  to  watch  this  and  I  have  since  learned  most  of  the  family  is  unable  to  watch  it  

as  well.  I  thought  perhaps  tonight  on  the  second  anniversary  of  her  passing  I  would  

but  I  cannot.  It  feels  safer  to  write.  Grief  still  comes  in  waves,  even  with  the  passage  

of  years  it  often  surprises.  A  forgotten  memory  brought  unexpectedly  to  the  surface  

at  the  mere  hint  of  remembrance  and  tears  flow  once  again.  Perhaps  grief  is  simply  

loves  unwillingness  to  let  go.    

The  void  we  feel  at  her  passing  is  immediate  and  aching.  What  was  less  

apparent  at  the  onset  was  the  drift  that  would  occur  with  the  loss  of  our  anchor.  The  

person  that  kept  us  afloat  and  intact  was  now  gone.  Every  family  must  have  that  one  

person,  the  glue  that  holds  the  rest  together.  It  may  not  always  be  the  mother  but  I  

suspect  in  most  families  it  is.  We  must  now  learn  to  live  untethered  and  free  floating.  

There  are  no  more  Sunday  family  dinners;  months  will  pass  without  a  single  word  

  12  

spoken  between  family  members.  We  still  care  for  each  other  of  course;  we  still  love  

each  other,  and  the  rare  occasions  spent  together  now  are  no  longer  mired  in  

sadness,  but  instead  laced  with  the  formation  of  new  memories  and  laughter  as  we  

navigate  our  way  in  this  new  world  of  ours  without  our  anchor.    

It   is   said   time   heals   but   I   believe   time   dulls,   finally   affording   us   the  

opportunity  to  reflect  with  gratitude  a  time  of  happier  memories  instead  of  dwelling  

on  the  loss.  If  time  is  not  the  mechanic  of  healing  then  perhaps  it  is  the  memory  of  

love   that   finally   pulls   us   through   our   sorrow.   Loss   of   a   loved   one   is   the   common  

thread  that  binds  all  of  us  together.  Each  of  us  will  lose  someone  we  hold  dear  and  

many  will  feel  the  pain  of  multiple  losses.  We  each  reflect  upon  loss  differently  and  

cope  in  a  different  manner,  but  it   is  our  shared  experience  of  grief  that  may  set  us  

apart   from   all   other   creatures   and   ultimately   I   hope   allows   us   to   live   with  more  

compassion  for  each  other.  It  often  helps  me  in  the  darkest  recesses  of  grief  to  know  

I  am  not  the  only  person  to  have  ever  gone  through  this.    

Sitting  upon  my  desk  as  I  write,   is  the  last  picture  taken  at  that   last  Sunday  

dinner  of  the  two  people  that  have  meant  the  world  to  me,  my  son  the  gymnast  and  

his  cheerleader  grandmother,  together  saluting  the  world  one  last  time.  It  is  now  my  

time  to  salute  you  mom  and  in  remembering  her  I  am  forever  reminded  to  love  each  

person   that   touches  my   life.  Loss  amplifies   love,  and   the  greatest  gift  we  can  offer  

another  is  our  capacity  to  love.  

  13