Despite being a journalist, I had never thought to do it before. But as my mother, Mira, drew closer to the end, I interviewed her. I wanted to distract her from the aches, the nausea, the tiredness. I wanted to distract myself from it too.
By that time I was exhausted from her routine and my part in it: I feigned a smile as I helped balance Mira’s ill-fitting wig on her head; I came to her house with mobility aids and bland home-cooked soups, each time proffering them like a bunch of flowers. As her illness progressed, my mother started to move further away from who I’d known her to be. Her skin became dull; her voice duller still.
