As I was going through all the photographs of my mom that I could find, it occurred to me that my first experience with Mom and my last experience with Mom during her lifetime were while she was in a hospital bed.
The difference between those two moments is the distance between soaring joy and the bottomless pit of despair. But despite all of their differences, they add an odd symmetry to the story.
I look at the photo above, and I think about the long road from that day until now. My birth changed my parent's lives. On that day, my mom began her daily, unending task of trying to protect me, teach me, and guide me. She never faltered on my journey from boy to man. She did everything with love. She accomplished her mission.
So often I feel like my mother's story wasn't finished when it ended. But there are parts of it, at least, that feel satisfying.