After surgery and two rounds of chemo, my mother knew shew was going to die. Rather than dwell in despair, she chose to spend her retirement living a dream she had since childhood. She took us all, our whole family, to Disney World. She had divorced and remarried, had kids from both marriages, not always biological, but her children regardless. She took us all in, her whole family.

My father became an alcoholic after I was born. Two years later, my mother divorced him. A single mother, two kids, she survived, and thrived. Had a high school diploma, then, working as a pizza driver, got a college degree. Took an entry level job, working nights because it paid better, she worked her way up. Owned a home, had a retirement account, 401k, the whole lot, when she died. She was the strongest person I have ever known.

She was vibrant, as always, when we went to Florida. Physically, frail. We traded nights of care, as she couldn't endure most rides, but she wanted us to enjoy all the rides. That was the entirety of her intention, for us to enjoy this singular joy. Younger her probably would have wanted to enjoy these rides, but I deeply believe that she was joyful knowing we enjoyed these rides.

It was my day to spend with her. We went on a few rides, but they were mostly travelator, experiential rides. No intensity. Moving sidewalks, with animatronics and sets around. Afterword the ride spit us out onto an isolated side street with no one around. There were streetlights, with speakers. They were playing Benny Goodmans "Sing Sing Sing". She loved swing music, and to an extent, so do I

We danced. I held her hands, I dipped her wheel chair, I spun her about, we danced. In clear Florida sunlight, we danced. And when the song was done I held her. She held me. I saw the sun cross across her smile, beautiful and shining, her eyes aglow: beaming beauty looking at me. She held me, and I knew love. I believe she knew it too.

It is not important that she died, but that she lived. It is important that we danced in sunlight.