March 4, 2024
Ron went to the hospital that morning so he could see his mother one last time. He had gotten a call from the nurse on the floor, who said she died. He was just glad he would be able to get in to see her because several of his friends whose parents had died alone during the COVID pandemic still carried around regret and anger over not being able to say goodbye.
He arrived shortly before 6 a.m. and people were already arriving for work.
During her final weeks, Ron had spent a lot of time sitting by her bedside and now that vigil was over. It had come to an end.
When he walked into the room, he didn’t even recognize the woman in the bed. Was that the face of death? He remembered one of the last things she told him, almost as if she were extracting a final promise: “Be sure the funeral director makes me look good.”
“Yes, Mom,” he told her. “I’ll do that. You don’t have to worry.” So later that day, when he was at the funeral home, he repeated what she had said to him word for word.
When he saw her laid out several days later, he knew she would be pleased. The funeral home had “made her look good.” But then, he knew that in Heaven she no longer looked the same. She was in a place where you don’t age. You get younger. And you don’t care how you look.
He knew a couple of people who had near-death experiences and met loved ones, and their accounts were all the same. The family members and friends who died looked great. They were young again, infinitely happy and at peace. And somewhere, he was sure, his mother was a new person too.
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