Snapshots

My dad,  standing at the counter,  discussing catheters with my brother.  

My mom,  laying on the hospital bed,  taking leave of us, slowly but surely.

My older brother, looking at the menu of a restaurant near his hotel.

 Michael,  on a plane home.  To hug his wife and child. 

The dog..  our run away. .laying on the couch, keeping vigil.

We've been sitting shivah.. in advance of death.  Watching. Waiting. Sharing. Periods  of normalcy, punctuated by intense pain.  This is death.  This is the end. This is life. Life. From this day forward the stories we tell will be Mom Stories.  How she saved us, cared for us,  scared us, and loved us. She was our glue, the rock,  the fork in our back when we slouched.  She is the reason we are.

And my dad.. . What an incredible man.  Every man I have ever loved has fallen short.  He loves. He cherishes. He honors my mother in every way,  shape,  and form. He's my dad. He let's me hug him. He hugs  me. He and I,  a new team.  

We sit, we talk, we eat. My mother sleeps. An occasional snore. Then silence. She has passed away from us. And one by one, we come to say a final goodbye. Her body remains, but her soul is gone, soaring, sailing, and becoming whole again. She will live in all of us from this day forward. I will hear her scolds, her admiration, her encouragement, and her love each and every day for the rest of my life.

Rest in peace, mom. I love you still.