On All Hallows’ Eve,
Mother wore the costume of her former self.
Unresponsive for a full week,
a blanket disguised her shrunken present state.
Above its tattered fold,
a familiar face appeared with wrinkles erased.

On All Saints’ Day,
Mother at last neared that fabled Gate of Gold.
A humble supplicant, reluctant
to join the ranks of the Day’s honored martyrs.
How typical of her,
queuing patiently, the last but never the least.

On All Souls’ Day,
a thin blanket was drawn across Mother’s face.
Her death certificate signed
as official before a cold, gray morning dawned.
With every Allhallowtide,
let us pray that her faith was finally rewarded.

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