Exactly two weeks from tomorrow, it will have been four years since I last saw my mom alive. She was on her final days of her life’s journey. We spent some of that time together, quietly, in her room at a care facility, and in the facility’s dining room, where I fed her and was able to witness a lovely church service, where a woman sang hymns and played piano and made many smile. I smiled a bit too. My mom died less than two weeks later, just before the pandemic descended on the world, and there wasn’t time to stop and process things for a long time. But after Alzheimer’s disease, there wasn’t a lot left to hold on to, when the person you had known already and slowly had disappeared as their brain was collapsing. This weekend, I may take down the photos I have had taped to my living room walls since that time. It could be the moment to let this finally go.