My mother died.

Like a wing, like a bird, she took flight.

It is best.

She, herself a bird, weightless as a feather

lifted up and flew

not even looking back.

A wisp of smoke

streaking towards the light,

pulled by ancestors and angels and

love.

I could not bear to watch her go.

I was expecting it.

When death comes,

you never know how you will be.

I thought there would be relief.

There was, though bittersweet with

memories and missing her.

Yet from a great distance I could see–

she was standing there,

laughing, relieved,

loving me, her child.