I bring my mother some hot tea from the small kitchen and smile as I pass a nurse in the carpeted hallway. The ceramic cup adorned with falling white snowflakes is her favorite. I open her door at the hospice center, place her tea on a nightstand, and sit down on the bed. Her failing voice sounds weak.
“Is it snowing outside, John? You know how I love the winter.”
“It’s a blizzard out there, Mom.”
She sips some tea, and closes her eyes, sleeping.
Outside in the shade from the hot summer sun, I sit on a bench and cry.