Mom is beginning her transition. It is still the early stages of the dying process, but it has begun.
Outside her home, there is a flurry of songbirds. They beat their wings and chase each other, vying for the best position on the feeders.
But inside, all is quiet and peaceful. We speak softly. I play the harp next to my sleeping mother, who’s breathing is slow and clear.
Home is now a sanctuary, for the dying and, perhaps, for the spirits coming to show her the way.