Just back from a whirlwind five-day trip to Texas to lay my mother to rest. The experience was similar to that three years ago when my father died: Same funeral home, same church, same preacher, even pretty much the same meal following the service. Later that evening, a pretty hilarious discussion of why none of the Crisp brothers can dance.
Then, on Saturday, the same long drive to North Texas for burial in the Prairie Point Cemetery at Bazette. This time it was overcast and raining and humid. My shirt stuck to me like a cocklebur. Afterward, we even ate at the same place: Sam's, in Fairfield, Texas, where I used to eat during my days covering high school sports.
Everything went about as well as could have been hoped for. My mother died peacefully, with my sister-in-law reading Psalms to her and love letters that my father, Clifton, had written to her just before they married. My mother was unconscious, but Linda said she was sure that Mom was aware, at some level, of what was going on.
And this odd moment: A few days before she drifted into unconsciousness for the last time, my mother asked my brother: "Did you see Clifton?" He had just been there, she said, stopping by to visit.
A delusion? I suppose. Or maybe just an early welcome home.