as if it’s your last

It was a perfect day, encompassing a lifetime, full and complete, in but a single cycle of our sun.

We talked throughout it, between her short naps. She dozed as little as she dared, lest she miss some precious moment.

That afternoon, she asked again for my stepdad, and when he entered her room, she greeted him with, “Kiss me.” He did, and she replied, “No, kiss me.” He did again, and she laughed, repeating, “No, KISS me!” And, sobbing, chuckling, he embraced her, despite that she was so devastatingly frail, and the third time, he responded as well and as fully as every true love should.

I sat at her bedside, recalling the mother of my childhood, and of my school years, and of my adulthood, and as midnight approached, I was awakened from that reverie by the vision of a girl wearing the fashion of her day — full, knee-length pleated skirt, a plush matching sweater over a crisp white blouse, bobby socks, saddle shoes. A vibrant young lady with familiar blue eyes and oh-so-luscious curls!

She, radiating boundless, irresistible joy, giggled at me over her shoulder, then skipped away.

And I looked back to my mom, and yes, she had indeed passed on.

It was the last of many perfect days we shared.

A life chapter closed with yet another of her grief-absolving gifts.

A parting vision to comfort and inspire always.

Thank you, Mama.

Happy Mother’s Day.

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