That week spent in Jamaica, in my brother's house, with my mother and my son, was a gift. It was one of those moments when we were exactly where we needed to be, so that my mother would not brood in her room alone, staring out at the hills. We did little else but be with her, watching games shows together, talking and not talking, and me holding my mother in those moments when she became overwhelmed by the reality that her sister had died. I encouraged her to cry. I told her it was natural to cry, to not keep grief bottled. She said she wanted to be strong for everyone. I asked her to be vulnerable for us, so that we might mourn together. At last she broke down and sobbed, whispering over and over, We've had such a good life, we've been so blessed. And then she slept. And my son played video games, waiting for her to awaken. And we talked about everything, all the sharing that can only happen unforced. There was sorrow in the air, but the week was charmed, too, a moment out of time, the three of us together, necessary and right.