Man, Dying is Hard Work Bill Hartfield

Her smile reach her eyes, making them shine like a star lighting up a dark sky as I stepped over the threshold into the tiny living room. Her arm reached for mine and I took it tightly as she pulled me to her. The hospital bed she lay in is set up to look out the large picture window so she could enjoy the birds eating at the feeders my father had put up just months before he died. Looking in my eyes, she whispered "they want me to go on the plane. I don't want to go on the plane." "Mom you don't have to go on the plane. Tell them you want to go by train. You can go to heaven anyway you want to." I told her. I could see her face relax as she went back to sleep. After talking quietly to my sister and niece I left the house knowing I would never see her alive again. A few days after she passed I heard three train whistles at my home. I don't live anywhere near a train so I knew it was my mother. Calling my sister I asked her about a train. "When mom died we all heard three train whistles so I guess she took your advice." my sister told me. I looked toward the sky and smiled.