In her last years, the familiar was important.
Mom died on Christmas Eve this past year. She lived a long, full life, confident in her faith and trust in God.
“Let my last door open into the light of late spring.
May it be shadowed with the announcements of those who walked
into darkness before me—right foot disappearing first,
body leaning into the unknown, trailing hand making mostly
mysterious gestures: I’m all right or come along; it’s what I thought
or it’s not what I thought.” *
My mother died in winter but her preference was for late spring. It was a season she knew well, although spring in Wyoming is ever elusive. She was a gardener and knew spring’s light better than most.
I have no doubt it guided her through her last door.
*(Excerpt from Wendy Bishop’s “My Last Door,” a poem referencing a Georgia O’Keefe painting of the same title.)