Remembering a Mother’s Dying Days

What if my memory of my mother’s dying is not accurate?

What if she didn’t die in a small, hilltop tuberculosis hospital in Southern Ohio? What if she didn’t die, weighing 69 pounds while her two daughters waited outside, wondering why she held on to her life?

These adjectives, nouns, and verbs have been part of my psyche for more decades than I care to acknowledge but never have I considered that they may not be accurate ones.

Maybe she died in a chintz covered room in Beverly Hills. Perhaps she died with well wishing friends and family…