On the morning of September 11th, my mother passed away.
Anna had sent me an e-mail saying, "mom is about the same, maybe tireder..." so it was a shock to walk in to her room and find her gurgling and unresponsive. That night, when Tim and I got up to leave the room, there was a whir from her dresser.
She had a music box, something that my father had bought her for Christmas many years ago, when I was still in high school. He'd given it to me, along with some other things to wrap. I remember being tickled that he would have bought something so sentimental for her.
I heard that whir, and I turned to it, and that music box played just the first line: '...let me call you sweetheart...' and then it just stopped. Just like that. My mom died a few hours later. Coincidence? Maybe. I don't know. I'm not a great believer in stuff like that. I do know that it was a comfort to hear what she could not say, and I am glad for it.
I grieve. I grieve for the loss of my mother, and I grieve for what was and what is no more. There's that. There's relief too. It was a stressful time. She did not seem to suffer, and I am glad for that. I can't feel more than that right now. I'll ponder it in my mind and pray on it. I'll talk with the people that know me best. The sharp discomfort of grief will give way to something softer and more comforting.