Sharon Lucille Johnson Hackett

April 13, 1932 - October 26, 2009

My mom.

My mother has stopped eating now.
She has difficulty swallowing even water.
We have called the family, my brother is flying in on Monday.
He will be here for two weeks.
My guess now is that is long enough.

At the end, now, there is really nothing else to do.
I can only cherish these last days in my mother's presence,
and bear witness to her quiet passing.

Today is a perfect October day.

The sun is shining in a cloudless blue sky,

the morning chill has warmed up to midday.

We've had enough cold nights to turn the leaves,

and they are beautiful, turning every street and yard

into picture postcard autumn scenes.

I put aside my concerns and go for a walk.

It feels good to move, to let go of stress and grief,

to notice the trees, and people's gardens, 

the dogs down the neighborhood who usually go ballistic when I pass by, 

but don't today. 

I walk through the graveyard, past the big pine trees - my favorite -

pine needles crunching underfoot, 

and pause under the snaggly old chestnut tree

to fill my pockets with shiny plump brown chestnuts.