The Waiting
Everyone, at some time, is bound for home. What awaits there is unknowable; what might be glimpsed, unforeseeable. But the future—ours, theirs, yours—is inevitable. And I promised myself I would not look away when it presented itself. So my homecoming, the last I would have with my mother, was spent at her bedside in a long goodbye that I want to hold on to the only way I know how.
