What My Mother’s Last Words Taught Me About Love and Loss

A Deathbed Goodbye, a Midnight Miracle, and a Party on the Other Side

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Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. (Matthew 5:4)

My mom hadn’t opened her eyes or sipped water since the day before, lying in bed in my sister’s house. Now she spelled out her last words.

“L-I-G-H-T. L-I-G-H-T.”

I squeezed her hand. “Mom, you’re spelling ‘light.’”

Her face was tense with concentration. She seemed adamant to communicate this.

“Can you see light? Can you go into it?” I asked softly. Once more she spelled it.

It seemed impossible. She’d always been there.

When my dad had left home before I started college, she’d stayed put.

When I craved a road trip after graduation, she was packed before I was. We drove her van across several states to the Northern California redwoods, the tallest, oldest, most majestic trees we’d ever seen, and brought home enough redwood pieces to make Christmas clocks for most everyone we knew that year.

When I needed unwavering compassion during moves, break-ups, earthquakes, and ordinary Friday nights, my mom was my north star.