My son and I moved up our visit and we walked in the door last Saturday. My wife arrived Sunday. My mother was on ever increasing levels of morphine and while I am absolutely sure she knew we were there on Saturday (she responded to questions and drank a few sips of water) by Sunday she was mostly comatose. She died on Wednesday morning.
The other relatives started arriving the next day and my sister's house was full to overflowing. Our days were filled with the work of a family gathering and planning a funeral.
Borepatch lives less than an hour away. He opened his home to my wife and I so we could take the pressure off my sister, gave us a key, a bedroom, free run of the kitchen. He and the QOTW sat up late and talked to us, served us comfort food, gave us a place to retreat to in the evenings. They went above and beyond and offered us true friendship in a time of need. Sure, we could have gotten a motel room, probably been closer to my sister's, but it would not have been the special, memorable time this was.
Here's my mother in June of 1956. She was so completely a person of her time. A person of grace and hard work and beauty both inside and out. The quote from Ecclesiastes at the bottom was a favorite of hers and for decades she had been telling me to read it at her funeral.
There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavensa time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.--Ecclesiastes 3