But back to his mother, she died of a heart attack, dying all alone.

As life left her; as she died distanced from the world that hummed just a few feet away; I wondered what she had thought, at that moment, as she lost grip of her son's shirt? Imagining her eyes watching it fall from her hands; the needle and thread following and then the buttons too. Hitting the floor, and bouncing as they take random directions, as they spin and roll away, leaving her behind just as her own life was.

She had called for help, he said, but how would he know, as I mused on if she were indeed all alone? Over the years I'm sure his mind must have found him there, standing over her, looking down and seeing that picture, that scene unfolding, in his mind as only his imagination and the stories of others could frame; and here perhaps she called for help, she had called his name.

We all see ghosts, at times, in our minds at least.

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