I want to have a decent grasp of the foundations of life and death, but what I know is that my mother is going to die. Soon. The nursing home has transitioned her to "hospice" care, which means that in the coming weeks, days, or hours, as her body shuts down, my mom will be made comfortable.
My mother's impending passing is not a shock. Once, our family suffered from the diagnosis of her early-onset Alzheimer's, a delightful band of optimistic people, struggling with the elephant in the room of their maternal loss. Too soon, too overwhelming. All we can do is tremble.
Packing, I don't think about how desperate I should be beside her. I think about the books.
Standing in front of the massive bookshelf, peace radiates from the splendid spines and stacked pages. This bookshelf is an industrial masterpiece, bolted together with black iron pipes and canary yellow shelves. A man created by my partner, witty, proficient in math, and obsessed with Bibliomania. It is a symbol of knowledge and comfort.
I am grateful to friends who have expressed their condolences, especially those touched by dementia, knowing that the process is like paint thinning out.