He had been little, and still holding his mother’s hand. Now he took them two at a time. His mother was sitting in her usual pew. In the right corner, far back. Even though it had only been a few weeks since he’d last spent time with her, she seemed . . . smaller. He slid in beside her, and grasped her hand. She gripped it hard. “What’s wrong and why are we here?” he asked. “I needed courage, and I needed you.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Are you ill?” She nodded and his heart nearly stopped. “How ill?” Her eyes, when she turned to look at him, were not only red-rimmed from crying, they were haunted. “Less than a year.” “Dear God!” His world collapsed. “No!” “Cancer almost got me over thirty years ago, Logan, and I beat it. Now it’s come back.” Then she dropped another bomb. “I’ve had a good run. There’s little I wanted to do that I haven’t done. I can face death. It’s facing you that is going to be hard.” His mind was whirling.
