The End of Another Forty Days

Six and a half years ago, I reflected on the death of my father. It is barely conceivable to me that I am now living in the aftermath of the death of my mother. Although I have had my own home since my twenties, and although my parents divorced while I was in college, there is something about your parents’ home being “home.” It doesn’t have to be the home you grew up in. And, as in my case, even if your parents are divorced, there’s just something that feels like home whenever you’re with them. My dad’s death was difficult, as all such deaths are, yet in his departing a feeling of home left with him. And while Mom lived, there was a “home” that seemed, somehow, just as much, perhaps even more, a home as my own. Now she is gone.

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