My mother's shared calendar still lives on my phone. I haven't added anything to it in fourteen months.
The last entry she typed herself is still there, right below a dental appointment and buy birthday card for Ray. It says: Teach S to drive — Sat 10am.
She had a stroke on a Wednesday. I caught a red-eye, the boarding pass still folded in my wallet like something I'm afraid to throw away.
She can't drive anymore. Can't really type. Some days she knows my name and some days she doesn't.
So every Saturday at ten I pull into her driveway and pick up my niece. Sarah stalls at stop signs and grips the wheel too tight.
Last week she called me by my mother's name, then caught herself. We both went quiet. She drove us through the subdivision without saying another word.
I keep thinking I should delete the old entry, make a new one under my own name. Start something clean.
But it's the last sentence my mother ever wrote. I'm not ready to be the one who closes it.