Mother’s Day is forever tinged with a certain sadness for me because it’s the day I accompanied my mother eleven years ago to the cemetery where she’s been interred ever since. Well, that’s not entirely true. She didn’t die that very day--death wouldn’t come for another six months yet.
We were in the funeral home shopping for a shiny new casket and to make final arrangements for her corpse, an unwelcome visitor that would be arriving sometime soon, though precisely when even the doctors couldn’t say. For her peace of mind if nothing else, she was intent on tidying up the financial and administrative minutia that comes with dying as a human being. As soon as the umbilical cord is cut, after all, we’re attached to another made of red-tape, and that one grows longer with each passing year, so that we die tangled up in it in the end.
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