My mother died today
eight long years ago.
I was the one who had to call everyone
to her bedside
eight years ago yesterday
so she could say goodbye.
I had been out of touch with my family for years
but yet she begged for me to come home.
My brothers-in-law and sisters had quit their jobs
and moved back to the family estate.
My father was senile.
My mother asked me every two weeks
to drive to Arizona from California
to see her.
After two days, my sisters would ask me to leave--
they said I was upsetting the household,
so I left.
This I did for two months.
Then, one day in Palm Springs on vacation,
I called my home in suburban California
for messages.
There was an urgent message from my sister,
"Mother says she's dying; come home now."
I drove 120 miles an hour from the California desert
to my ancestral home.
This is not the actual day.
It was Monday before Ash Wednesday.
But this is the day I shall always remember her.
The minister was of no help.
I had to deal with the dying.
I had experience, because
I had had so many friends die of AIDS.
My mother could not communicate at first;
I told her to squeeze my hand if
she could understand me.
She did.
She barely muttered
"Bring the family; I want to say goodbye."
I did.
I told her it was all right to go home to God.
And the next day
she did.
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