She answered her phone. “How are you?” I asked gently. We hadn’t had a chance to speak until now. She told me she was doing okay. It had taken her two weeks, but her mom’s house was finally cleaned out. Her grandson would help her rent the place, she said. Which felt so helpful. The service had gone fine. “Mom would’ve approved,” she said. That’s good. She described a strange mixture of relief and sorrow. It had been a long road of constant care. But that didn’t mean she didn’t now miss her mom. She did, she did and she told me she did. Of course. It felt good to talk with her. She thanked me for calling.
Alone in my car, my silent wondering returned: What are we to do with death?