Her family said she was a saint; I say she was a workhorse. Sometimes maddenly cheerful, other times angry, sometimes in weariness, other times energetically. 

She hummed a tuneless melody that only she could hear. Her hands wove threads of possibility, invisably, silently, selflessly.  On duty seven days a week, expected to parent four children, manage housework, cooking, laundry, shopping, folding, cleaning.

A wife to one, a mother to all, survivor of too many deaths, stitching the seams of disjointed chaos into order. Alternating two housedresses, never expecting acknowledgement or praise, she cared for those who might not have otherwise survived.

She carried her pain lightly; as lightly as her steps across the floor. Her steadfastness, her courage in a shifting world, assumed. 

Ahd that is why, when she could no longer try, I committed myself to her, the way she had done for everyone. I promised her I would be there through her final days, which happened to be twelve years of our lives. She knew I would. She requested that I arrange her affairs long before her intellect died. And when she coud no sustain her gigantic role, she became a child, and I, her mother.   

And so we began the best twelve years of our bond. I could feel her in my bloodstream, anticipate what she could not say. I helped her unravel what she no longer understood, I told her the truth, I painted her nails. I styled her hair. I did the housework until, at last, we hired someone. And then others. I became their supervisor, training, advising, explaining. Watching.

The piano became our communication when words could not. And so I conveyed my devotion to the woman who had worried unceasingly about me. I listened when she could not speak. I sat by her bed as she slept. I heard what she could not say. It is with great sorrow I write today.