Four years ago was my the last night my mom breathed. I had been spending every night at the hospice house with her and we had a ritual that I counted on. During the day friends and family were in and out but once my dad and brother headed for home and the night shift nurses had given her medicine, we were alone. I would swab her mouth and brush her hair and then, just as I had watcher her do for her own mom, I would lotion her feet, legs and hands. As I did this I would sing to her. The same song she sang to me when I was upset as a child. “Speed Bonny Boat”.

I remember coming back from a party in middle school and, in dramatic fashion, tearing into the house and up the stairs, throwing myself on my bed and sobbing. I don’t remember what upset me but I do remember feeling like NOTHING would EVER be ok. She came in and rubbed my back and I managed to ask, through my tears, if she would sing to me. I knew I was too old for it, and I knew it was the only thing that would make me feel better. I still remember how safe I felt that night, depleted by my theatrics and falling asleep to her warm hand and her Welsh voice.

At the hospice house it was my turn. I sang. I told her how much I loved her. I told her that we would be ok without her, and that it was ok if she wanted to go. That was a fucking lie if I've ever told one. In the 1,460 days since she has been gone there have been happy days and hard days and not one of them has been ok without her. If there was a price I could pay for five more minutes with her; for the sound of her voice or the feeling of her next to me, I would find a way no pay it no matter the cost.

The next morning I woke up and headed to workout with my sister in law. Cynthia, moms best friend, stayed at mom’s side and promised to call if anything happened. The hospice nurse had told us we were in the “hours to days” phase of death two days before. I can’t remember if it was my phone or Kaitlin’s that Cynthia called. I do remember is rushing out to the car, Kaitlin asking me if I was all right to drive, me saying I was and then appreciating very much that she didn’t question me even though I probably looked like a lunatic.

You know the way you walk when you’re super late for something but trying to look like everything is fine and you're not in a rush? I think that is how I drove. We went into her room and mom was quiet and still in bed, just as she had been for the last few days. Daniel, dad, Kaitlin and I gathered around her . She took a rattly breath. Then another. Then no more.

I cried. I touched her face. I told her how much I loved her. My throat felt so tight that I couldn't catch my breath. I wondered what would happen if I did what I felt and started wailing. If i climbed into bed with her body held her and refused to get out. Would that stretch out the last time I would be in a room with her? Already her body was growing stiff. Her mouth was open a little and her tongue as thrust forward. I remember pressing my cheek to hers and thinking how odd it was that there was no warm breath. No hint of coffee or cigarettes or alcohol or breath mints.

We sang to her.
Loch Lomond.
“But me and my true love will never meet again on the bonnie bonnie banks of loch lomond.”

I left the room finally to call Jeremy and cry with him. Dad wasn't ready for anyone to move her body yet so I sat on the porch of her room with the birds flitting in the afternoon sun. Finally, when he was ready, they covered her in a quilt and all of the workers at hospice, along with my family and some close friends, lined the hall and silently watched her body be rolled out.

There wasn’t much to do after that. Friends packed up the room for us and dad and I got into his car to drive home. “Can we stop at Costco?” he asked. I laughed and then looked over at him and realized he wasn't kidding. Yes. Sure. Of course. Why wouldn’t we? “What do you need at costco?” He needed champaign to toast mom with at dinner. And maybe some salmon. And some socks.