I rarely cried after my teenage years, whether because of some cultural conditioning or natural temperament I cannot say, but that’s who I was. That didn’t stop me from bawling when my mother passed.
I was there for her end. She decided to go peacefully at home, far from the sterile hospital where the doctor had delivered the news.
After she exhaled that final time, I broke down, crying on my knees. I gradually slipped from the bed until I was balled on the floor, oblivious to everything except that the woman I had known my whole life was gone.
No comments:
Post a Comment