TEN years ago my mother died in my arms, propped up on plush, monogrammed Laura Ashley pillows with Frank Sinatra singing “My Way” through Sony Walkman earphones strapped to her head. The Walkman didn’t fit the décor, and neither did I. My mother and I were not close, and it was somewhat ironic that, of her four children, I would be the one rubbing her spongy forearms and kneading her ice-cold feet as she prepared to lay her burden down.
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