It will be like this for a while, I’m told. I’ll pick up the phone to call my mom and get halfway through dialing before I remember she’s not taking calls. I’ll finish reading a book and put it on the pile to go to her next, but she’s not accepting book recommendations. I’ll turn onto the road that leads to the Hospice House or maybe even into the parking lot before realizing she doesn’t live there anymore. After a long, trying, traumatic battle with congestive heart failure, her pulse faded to nothing a little more than a week ago.

Every day since, I’ve found something I want to share with her, tell her, ask her about, do for her. She’s no longer taking calls.

The day we spoke with her pastor about the structure of her funeral service, we exited the church just as the sun was setting. Spectacular colors. A sweet sunset.

I took out my camera phone and aimed it toward the radiance so I could snap a picture to show Mom how awesome the sky looked on the day we planned her funeral. As if she didn’t have a better vantage point than I did. And as if that magnificent color palette wouldn’t seem pale compared to what she was enjoying.

I slipped the camera phone back into my pocket without taking the photo. It seemed unnecessary. Now I wished I’d captured the shot.

For me, not for her.