Monday morning, I held her hand.
The same hand that taught me to crochet and tried to teach me how to cook.
The same hand that washed my clothes and turned the pages of my bedtime stories.
The hand that wanted to help and guide me, when all I could so was strive for my independence. The hand that tried to give me everything I needed.
I held her hand while I cried, told her I loved her, apologized for not being a better daughter and especially for never giving her grandchildren.
Monday afternoon, my mother passed from this world to the next after a brief, painful struggle with lung cancer. May she find peace.