Grief

I sit in the pew of the crematorium at Hendon Cemetery as the celebrant begins the service. As I look at my mother's coffin, I can't help but be glad that death claimed her in the way it did, silently in her sleep. An early morning phone call a week ago let me know that she had suffered a massive stroke during the night.

In truth, her death has been a bit of a relief; her quality of life had been deteriorating over the last couple of years and Alzheimer's had stripped her of the person she was. Instead, the woman I had been visiting the last few years was convinced she was eighteen and she had the mouth of a sailor. The mother I knew disappeared a long time ago, and even though I have had time to mourn that loss, the grief still bites, opening up the scar that I thought had long since healed.

A sound startles me and then a body slides into the seat next to me. I don't have to look up to know that it is Alex.

"I thought you were in America?" I whisper. Since our encounter in the baseme