Goodbye

I feel the warmth of her love around me. She's hundreds of miles away but I feel so near to her. Every breath I take carries the faintest whiff of a memory. Her old house, always kept clean. The scent of the hot chocolate she would make for me when I visited after school. I've never been able to find the same flavour since my childhood.

Always, always, there's the memory of her linen closet. It's mentioned on those questionnaires that her grandchildren fill out asking what their favourite scent is. I still don't know what she used to do to make it smell so wonderful.

I feel comforted feeling her nearby, like she's taking care of me as we all brace ourselves to let her go. All that's missing is her famous soup, served in a bowl made of clear, brown glass. No one can resist it and I'd do anything to have some right now.

She's 97, this woman who means so much to so many people. She has the name of two saints and a heart as bright as a diamond but as gentle and loving as only a good mother can be.

Her voice once warbled as happily as a song bird though she watches more and speaks less these days but she's still our mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. We have such memories of her that her voice and her laugh still echo in our hearts.

She has loved so deeply that her husband's portrait remained by her bedside every single day since his loss. When I think of what a strong woman means to me, her strength and determination shine through. She raised nine children and I lack the words to express the kind of wondrous people my aunts, uncles and mother are.

And now she's fading, her light dimming slowly and softly like a star near its end. I am surrounded by love for her and from her, despite being far away. She is with us, almost visible when I close my eyes.

This is my way of saying goodbye.