How I love this photo. Nephew and Mother holding hands.
It’s the last photograph I took of Mother, just under twelve hours before she died.
Today marks two months. That doesn’t seem possible. Two months.
Mandela isn’t helping. Every time I hear a news bulletin about his progress, my heart contracts and I weep. It sounds so familiar. Poor man, he must be chock full of medication to keep him alive. That makes me feel better that we said one course of antibiotics and no more. Let Mother die pain free, with dignity, and not an agonising slow death, weakened and confused.
Not that I wouldn’t have her alive now. I would. Oh yes, I would. Let me hold her hands again, see her smile when she knows I am with her, feel her fingers squeeze mine to the rhythm of the poem I am reading, put her arms around me when I ask for a hug.