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My mother’s name was Aurora. Her funeral was held on what would have been her 94th birthday five years ago in July. The service was small, and I was fine until the notes of “Malaguena” wafted through the air.
When my sister phoned to sa> that she had died, my sadness was overshadowed by my relief. Her last years had been difficult and without dignity for her.
A series of strokes had left her unable to walk and her entire left side was paralyzed. Her vision, which was already bad, worsened and she wasn’t able to hear.
Yet, her mind was intact, and even though she tended to wander down paths of the past, she still was aware of her deteriorating condition and frustrated by her inability to do the things she loved.
She could only read for small periods; the letters appeared jumbled when she was able to make them out, and her fingers had long ceased to be able to crochet or hold a pencil long enough to fill in the blanks of the daily crossword puzzle.
But there was a time when mother was strong and her fingers were nimble.
When I was very small, some of my earliest memories were of my mother carefully fin
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