Mercy on Mothers Day

 photo: hannahsbotany

Given medicated techno-deaths now, my mother gave me a deep gift. She chose to die at home, un-medicated, and came out of coma to bid me goodbye. I sat with her through the night, singing and holding her hand. She died on Mothers Day.

All days have been special days at some point in human history, all days inherently special if we wake to them.

I was left to deal with the dismantling of the sick room, the hospital bed and oxygen paraphernalia. I sat quietly. Bed was removed. I'd gone into a deep place praying for Mama, when I heard a knock on the screen door.

Mama's beautiful white clematis was in bloom; the day was hot. I came to, startled, and saw a huge black man in the doorway whom I didn't know.

He saw me sitting alone crying and spoke kindly to me explaining he'd come for the last sickroom stuff. I unlatched the door, and that big kind stranger put his arms around me, and let me sob.

He patted my back and said,

"The Lord wanted somebody good, and so He called Miss Anne."

Never saw that big-hearted man before or since, but I bless him as long as I live.

I planted a fragrant gardenia bush for Mama which became the glory of the garden, and when my dad passed, a weeping crabapple. They'll bloom long after I'm gone.

photo: naturalisticlandscapes.com 

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