Claudia Perry

I knew my peaceful, Sunday morning routine was doomed the minute I sat down with the paper and a hot cup of coffee. The dogs were barking at the wood-burning stove … in July, a hot, muggy July.

The hospice nurse laid the DNR form on the kitchen table, a pen next it. “You know you have to sign it eventually,” she said, gently, as she had at every visit for two months.

The strange phone call came the night before my son’s wake.

“How are you,” they say. A casual greeting, tossed off in passing, not really expecting more than a “Fine, thanks, how are you,” or a “good,” or a “great.” A casual greeting uttered hundreds of times a day—but never casual when asked of a grieving parent.

I don’t like grief. I’m not a wallower. I’d rather get on with it. But grief finds me anyway … everyday, nonetheless.

It wasn’t his driving I was worried about, I’d try to explain to him as he muttered, frustrated and annoyed that I might be criticizing his skills and maturity. But mothers learn to let go of their college teenagers, and so I’d say a little prayer every time he left and wait for his key to turn in the front door on his return.