Mom is dying. Death comes to us all, of course, but has a terrible specificity when it knocks at your door. Mom is 90, has had a good life, is in hospice care at home, and will die with my sister, Liv, and me close at hand. That’s as good as it gets these days. The body is stubborn. It gives up the habit of living reluctantly. Mom's mouth hangs slack and open, her eyes roll up toward the ceiling. If she’s looking at anything, it’s something invisible to us. To me, her life appears to be over.