Our last weekend together, I treated my mother like a wounded bird. I unknowingly assumed that, with the doctor's care and my love, she’d heal, leave the hospital and soar back home, where she’d left her life, and me, waiting. I normalized our final Sunday together, ironically Mother’s Day, and tried to replicate past holidays. Our annual Saks Fifth Avenue lunch was replaced by takeout on a tray between us. The roses I’d brought were stuffed into a small, pink, plastic jug. We laughed at the