Slow and Sad

The world has one fewer compassionate soul: My mother has died.

Things will be slow here for a bit. From Billy Connolly's poem Tomes:

even though it never mentions my mother,
now that I think of her again,
who only last year rolled off the edge of the earth
in her electric bed,
in her smooth pink nightgown
the bones of her fingers interlocked,
her sunken eyes staring upward
beyond all knowledge,
beyond the tiny figures of history,
some in uniform, some not,
marching onto the pages of this incredibly heavy book.

Goodbye Mother.