Her Last Door

Most Sundays I wrote a weekly letter to my mother, just a page or two. She liked receiving letters. It was the way she had corresponded with her siblings and her own mother.

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.)

Aim for Even posts offer equanimity a dose at a time. No day or dose is ever the same, even if the aim is. You may read about the origins of Aim for Even here or on this site’s About page