I’m in a small town one more night, staying with Dad as we mourn the loss of Mom.

It’s the Midwest, and winter is holding on to the bitter end. We wake to frosty mornings, with clear sunny skies that magnify the cold.

As I toss and turn each night, I hear the train whistles in the distance. The town is dissected by tracks, and the low rumble of train cars moving through the still night air is heard for miles, cutting into our cul-de-sac.

It reminds me of years I lived in nearby states, with towns that had more corn fields than housing developments.

As my restless mind fades in and out of consciousness, the pale light of early morning begins to strain through the window shade.

Outside, the gentle coo of turtle doves mournfully comes to me, awakening me reluctantly.

Today we bury Mom.

I’ll lay here a little longer…listening to the birdsong, and remembering the Mom that so loved birds, and country life, and most of all her family.