Sightseers into Pilgrims, by Evangeline Paterson I used to think -- loving life so greatly -- that to die would be like leaving a party before the end. Now I know that the party is really happening somewhere else; that the light and the music -- escaping in snatches to make the pulse beat and the tempo quicken -- come from a long way away. And I know too that when I get there the music will never end.
Two months ago my mom died. Yet, it seems like she’s still alive, and like she left years ago. In fact, I wasn’t able to mourn her for the six years she suffered from dementia, but since she’s died, I’ve celebrated her vitality and misdeeds and shenanigans and mostly, her love for her family, in big and small ways. Continue reading