I saw my mother’s final breath, a soft, shallow burbling with a little foam on her lips.
She was at peace, accepting of her fate, ready to move on.
I sat there crying, holding her hand, feeling it grow cold in mine as the heat of her life seeped away.
It was one of those moments that will always be with me, even twelve years later, I can still see it clearly.

Not a violent, sudden death where the spirit is yanked from the body, but a slow, prolonged decline where everyone knew the outcome, if not the exact time.
My mother had time to go through all the phases of death, and I was along for the ride.

A strong, independent woman, she fought valiantly, refusing to give in during the early stages of disbelief, anger, projection and denial.
It took almost three years for her to die, a long time.
Long enough to evaluate ones life, the lives of those you love and cherish and finally, truly understand your place ion the world.

Did my mother find those things?
I do not know, only she did.
But, she was at peace, satisfied, happy and ready.
Will I?