Three years. in A small but passable life.

Three years ago today I got the call from the stroke center that informed me that Mom had died. She had survived the emergency surgery (the surgeon had called me at 2am to tell me the blockage had been unremovable), but had never woken up.

She died alone later that day.

I still haven’t moved into the trailer. I’m still living in the shed. I only go in there to fix and eat meals and to use the bathroom. And to keep it tidy and clean.

And at least once a day I apologize to her, out loud, for something I’ve remembered I should apologize for.

How many times while trying to get her to understand the dangers of Covid-19 did I tell her she can’t get sick, that if she ended up in the hospital she’d have no visitors and if shit went south she’d likely die alone because the hospitals are locked down?

She died alone because the hospital (the stroke center) was locked down.

Now she’s resting with her daughter’s ashes on her granddaughter’s bookshelf until they’re interred.

Sorry Mom.

I love you.