A mourning dove watches as my mother lies dying. Her crackling breaths persist. She doesn’t remember that this is an ending. I wake most nights breathing deeply for her, hearing her oxygen machine across town as nearby trees sift night wind. Barely audible, yesterday she said that she had seen too much. Today, with her eyes becoming moist, she told me she had lived too long. Within each tear of a mourning dove – the loving hush of good-bye.