Thirteen
THE LAST OF THE MOURNERS leave about 4:30 p.m. I’m helping Helen with the kitchen cleanup. In the distance, the sky's darkening as a line of clouds get closer, going from bright and sunny to a dull grey. The wind is picking up, what was a gentle breeze blowing harder ahead of the approaching front.
Mom’s sitting in her armchair in the living room. She hasn’t moved from that spot since the last person said their goodbyes, nor has she said more than ten words to me today.
Ordinarily, I’d count that a blessing.
Today, I find it ominous.
“Do you think your Mom’s all right?” Helen whispers as she hands me a serving dish to dry.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I haven’t asked her.”
“Well, go in there and talk to her,” Helen says. “You’re her son. You’re all she has left.”
“Great,” I
