She had been so small by then, so reduced by the illness, that it had seemed impossible so much certainty could still live in her.

And yet her grip had been iron, and her voice had been clear, and she had refused to spend her last coherent strength on anything sentimental, choosing instead to hand me the one tool she judged I would most need and most lack.

I have thought often about the economy of a dying person’s attention, how it strips away everything that is not essential and leaves only what matters most.

My mother had used hers not to tell me she loved me, which we both already knew, but to hand me a sentence she suspected would save me someday.