My mom died when I was already an adult -- a mother myself. Her death was slow， expected. This made it no easier. Losses like this begin well before the person is gone， we imagine the world going on without them. The anticipation1 of it is like a slow， to grieving. We hold their hands， to their wounds， watch as medication drips into their veins2， all the while faced with the impossibility of our own powerlessness. This too， is beautiful， human brokenness.