In memoriam

Death knocked on our door twice last week.

The first knock claimed my mother who passed away August 22. In the early hours of the morning, before daylight stirred the mourning doves roosting in our woods, she breathed her last breath. Mum was 87. She had been ill all summer. My mother liked the Red Sox, chocolate ice cream, and Judge Judy. She studied the Bible every day until dementia gripped her in its tight fist and wouldn't let go. Her death was not a surprise, but it doesn't hurt any less.

Three days later, Death took away one of our pet hens. EstherBelle was a New Hampshire Red, and she nibbled clover out of my hand. My mother hated chickens. "Nasty things," she'd say, telling me again about collecting eggs as a young bride on my family's farm. Her hens pecked at her fingers until they bled. EstherBelle never displayed such aggression. Each egg from her feathered body blessed my featherless one. Her death was unexpected, but it doesn't hurt any less.

I feel my mother's absence in the world. EstherBelle's, too. As the days shorten and cool, I remember Mum saying, "Death always wins in the end." Yes, it does, but their stories remain with me.