That night I dreamt of her.
The night before the world fell apart.
Not as she was—
frail, slipping into silence—
but radiant, beautiful with
long hair like warm wind, and
a red convertible beneath her hands.
She was dressed in a flowing white dress.

She drove.
Smiling and happy.
Searching for a hospital in a landscape made of light.
I sat beside her,
unquestioning,
as if the soul always knows
the language of parting.

The phone rang.
Reality stepped in like a bell.

“She’s going,”
my father said,
and the dream folded
into grief.

I got ready to leave
For home hoping to make it
Before I left, I called. But when I called,
they placed the phone to her ear,
and I told her,
“I’m coming.
Wait for me.”

And she did.

The dying stopped
like a tide drawn back,
a doctor with no words,
a miracle with no explanation.
Just a daughter on a plane
and a mother holding on
with a strength shaped like love.

I arrived.
I held her hand.
I told her she could go
when the light opened.
It was her choice.
I put a rosary from the Vatican.
On her wrist.

I had to step out for a minute.
She waited until I left the room.
The moment she was alone.

And then,
she drove herself
into the sky.
Beautiful and free.