Edith Emma Cantrell
My Mother, Much Missed
28th May 1930 to 19th June 2008
To the woman who not only brought me into this world, but bequeathed to me the joy of books and words. She was a poet herself, but since she wrote only for the pleasure of it, my two sisters and I didn't learn of this creative pursuit until well into our own adulthood.
Alas, a stroke cruelly robbed her of the power to shape and savour words and she spent her final years bereft of both. Tonight, after a long and anguished struggle with her condition, my mother finally slipped into the peace of the eternal sleep.
To misquote Oscar Wilde, she's no longer looking up at the stars -- she's sailing gracefully among them.
Alas, a stroke cruelly robbed her of the power to shape and savour words and she spent her final years bereft of both. Tonight, after a long and anguished struggle with her condition, my mother finally slipped into the peace of the eternal sleep.
To misquote Oscar Wilde, she's no longer looking up at the stars -- she's sailing gracefully among them.
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