Twelve years ago, my mother passed away. It was Aug. 8, 2014, in the very early hours of a Thursday morning.

I had spent the night sleeping in her bed as she lay across from me in a hospital bed. My sister would come in every hour to check on mom’s breathing, and to see if she needed anything, but we knew that she was dying.

The wonderful hospice nurse hugged us tighter earlier that evening, when she left to go home. It was an unspoken message that the end, almost six months after the journey homeward started, was near.

Every year around this anniversary, I feel the weight of time on my shoulders. Lucy was my last direct link to the carelessassumption that life would always go forward, and carry me with it.

When you lose the person who brought you into the world, you begin to look around for the things that will keep you tethered to it.

And at 64, there aren’t very many left.

I don’t mean to sound morbid. My life is actually quite........

© The Saratogian