By Susan Harper
As my sweet little mother, wrapped head to toe in a cozy quilt, was lifted gently from her bed last night and rolled down the long hallway of her home, headed for the door and for the dark hearse in the driveway, a song started singing itself quietly in my head, almost as if she were whispering it from under the quilt: “Pack up all my care and woe, here I go, singin’ low. Bye bye, blackbird.” It sounded half jaunty and half regretful, as if she were looking ahead to “where somebody waits for me” and yet also looking back to where her suddenly bereft children stood speechless in the hall. How could we let her go?
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