I woke up this morning remembering my mother, who passed away a year ago today. I am glad she is not still in the nursing home going through what she was going through. She died at 89, after a long life - the way it's supposed to happen if we are lucky enough. The grieving through the last year has been different than for my Dad, who died too young at 62 of an illness he fought against as hard as he could. I am not haunted by the months of her dying the way I am still by my father's. She was ready to go. Surely to live long enough to reach a place of acceptance of one's natural death is an inestimable gift. Yet I have still grieved, and acutely at times. I think it is only this week that good restful sleep has begun to return. They say grieving is 4 seasons, a whole year, before you open again fully to the life you are living. It doesn't hurt so much; I can walk by the nursing home where she passed away peacefully on a beautiful warm, sunny day and feel grateful that she has escaped its confines. There is peace.