On Endings #2
My mother died in my arms. I say that sentence all the time because its power never ceases to stop me in my tracks and quiet my mind. I am happy that I got to hold her as she transitioned from here, a place we only barely understood but were quite used to, to some other plane where nothing goes on that I can claim to understand but where perhaps there is great memory for all of us.
I had been fairly resentful toward her even up and into her final days. I was mad at her for my life, for her life, for our poverty and struggles, for the ways she was difficult or…