Over the past many weeks, I have thought frequently that I should write something. For a second, I get an inkling of what I want to say about the process of sharing the end of my mother's life with her. That is usually all I need to start a piece of writing: a glimpse of an emotion or an image I want to convey. But before it can take root, whatever sense I have made of things has vanished.
I don't know how long my mother has to live but my guess is that it is weeks not months.
It is a gorgeous, horrendous, serene and sacred time. It is intimate. It is mainly private.
If I tried to describe to you how I feel or how she feels it would be a mirage. Transparent. Shifting. Chimeric. Which does not mean it is anything less than profound.
Here is what I can tell you right this second.
She is beautiful. She is breathing. She is kind. She is funny. She is constant. She is graceful. She is my mother.
Soon I will have to use the past tense on all of those attributes except one.
She is my mother.
That one is forever.