My mom died when I was already an adult -- a mother myself. Her death was slow, expected. This made it no easier. Losses like this begin well before the person is gone, because we imagine the world going on without them. The anticipation¹ of it is like a slow, steady burn. We become used to grieving. We hold their hands, press compresses to their wounds, watch as medication drips into their veins², all the while faced with the impossibility of our own powerlessness. This too, is beautiful, human brokenness.

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