It strikes me that today is the seventeenth anniversary of the last time I saw my mother alive. I went to my brother’s after work; she was nearly gone, but I stayed with her, sang hymns to her and just talked to her. She was mumbling while unconscious and something made me say, “Mom, I know you love me. I know you love me.” The mumbling stopped for a few minutes and this vast look of peace came over her face and her body seemed to just relax. I left and went home, and the next morning very early, she died. That July 12 was a Wednesday also; that July 13, the day she died was also a Thursday. Mom loved Bastille Day, always did. We didn’t wait long, we held her funeral and buried her on Bastille Day. Maybe the approach of this anniversary is why I have been getting a little blue. But Corlis just said something very nice about Mom being buried on Bastille Day: she’s celebrating! Go, Mom!

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