Mom was seventy two when she suffered a minor stroke and contracted pneumonia immediately afterwards. I sat at her bedside reading to her bible verses, Shakespeare, and the daily newspaper waiting for my sisters to arrive. The doctors assured me that she wasn't in pain though she jerked restlessly beneath the paper thin covers.
At one p.m. she told me I was a good boy, and I told her I loved her. Then she closed her eyes and slipped away just fifteen minutes before my sisters burst into the room with balloons and flowers.