Dying Lessons

In reading over my last post, I realize I still haven't explained the "raging inside" comment in this series of posts about my mother, Frances Alenikoff, during her last days and after. Maybe I'll get to it this time. Maybe I won't.

Rage can be so boring. You've got to have just the right distance from it so it doesn't come across as self-indulgent and tiresome -- but still be engaged enough to be able to write about it in a true voice.

So, dear reader, I'll serve up the ire when the time is right. But today, I want to talk about dying.

The Ripening of Mourning

Frances on her 91st birthday with me and my granddaughter

The last time I posted here, it was two and a half months after my mother, Frances Alenikoff, passed away. In that post, I came right up to the hardest edge of grief -- and ended before crossing over into it. My post ended on a loving note -- it's last word is "joy."

But when I wrote that post, I was raging inside. It wasn't pretty and I wasn't ready to share. Now nearly ten months have passed since Frances' death and it's time. A commenter to my last post jumpstarted my stalled will, so here goes.