Bonnie told me that on the day my brother John died, he dressed and sat on the edge of their bed, not pulling on his loafers but staring at his cupped empty hands. He asked her, “Did you give me this note?” “No,” she said, started. He studied his empty hands for several moments. “Yes, I see,” he sighed, “it’s from my mother. Mom has such perfect penmanship.” Bonnie did not say, ‘Oh, honey, your mother died years ago,’ but wisely asked, “Sweetie, what does the note say?” He sighed again, “It says time to go now.”
MARY-FRANCES SCHNEIDER 