She’d say, “You’re my baby.” Some days, several times. In moments when age seemed to take more than it left, she still knew one thing true and certain. I was her baby. I’d smile, “It’s a good thing I’m a lot like my mother.” She knew that, too; but she loved to hear the joy I found in being like she was. And knowing that she had raised a child content to be present with her, restored her sparkle.
On December 8, after Mom passed at 11:11 AM, I walked in and out of her bedroom. I spoke. I stood quietly. I spoke again, “Thank you for letting me take care of you.” In the silent face of death, my soul spoke. And my mom heard what she already knew, a growing depth of gratitude.