In Light

A few weeks ago, my grandfather's sister passed.

She had spent her life caring for her mother, she never married and never had children. Her ten brothers and sisters she fought with, and with the few alive, had barely made her peace before her passing. She had smoked almost her entire life and was left barely breathing, a tank of oxygen always by her side. That morning, it was not a brother or sister, niece or nephew, but it was the maid that made the discovery.

She was found, the tubes from her nose, cradled a corner of the bedroom, clinging to pictures of her some of her brothers and sisters who had already passed.

Since then, I have often wondered to myself, if this was meant to comfort her in death or a sign for the living to let us know who came for her in light.