I told my mother the previous morning it was ok to go. We were going to be alright. My father and stepfather were waiting for her. They were at the bar, with Bloody Mary and Old Fashioned’s in hand and sharing war and frat boy stories. They were looking forward to seeing her again.

My stepbrother and I waited in her room for the ambulance to transport my mother from the hospital back to Christwood, her home, for the past three years. She would be entering hospice.

The door to her hospital room opened, and my mother walked in. Looking ten years younger, with fresh makeup and a new haircut, she walked to the end of the hospital bed and glanced at herself lying in the bed. She was wearing one of her favorite outfits, a white shirt, a light green jacket, and a green and white skirt. Pushing her sunglasses back on her head, she carried her favorite handbag.

She turned to look at me and my stepbrother as we sat next to her bedside. Catching my eye, she smiled and waved. With one last glance at herself lying in bed, my mother faded away.