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I couldn't speak of it until now. I wanted to. I did not want to. I felt quiet on the matter.

On a Monday, a family. Two parents and three children and one parent coming on service, battle over. The wife. The mother. Relief. And grief. No one is surprised. The girls will be surprised. The girls do not know.

Should we tell them? I don't give advice. I facilitate. Find your answer. I give advice: yes. We rehearse. The father makes a sound like a wounded animal. I am firm. I am steady. We make a plan. Friday. I give them books to read. How to do it.

Monday again. The girls do not know. They did not do it. They could not do it. How could they?

I go over. She's in bed, she's sleeping. She's not sleeping. She's dying. I call the nurse. She's dying? The nurse thinks so too. She's dying. I call the father. She's dying. Soon. I give advice. I give a direction: you have to tell them. His wife can't help tell them anymore. I can help tell them. I leave. I come back. They are there. He tells them. I tell them. It goes as well as a thing like that can go.

Tuesday. I'm not at work, I'm not working. I'm at home. Work calls. She's dead. Its too much. Its too sad. Its too awful. The girls want me. The dad wants me.

I have terrific boundaries. I help, and I am not responsible. I am empathetic. I know the difference between empathy and sympathy.

I'm supposed to be there. It is different, with children. This is this story. I can give in to the way the story is supposed to go. I leave my children. I go there.

The kitchen is full of people, and food, and paper plates, and wine. Upstairs. I take off my shoes. I take off my lanyard. I don't automatically hug, ever. They reach. I hug, I hold.

Then, this: me, three girls, the dog, the dad, the dead mother. All in the bed together. Its quiet, its intimate. Its so relaxed. Its an 80'sish color on the wall but it really works for this. Its creamy and warm and cool at the same time. Its nice. Some tears here and there. They all lean and sprawl on each other, on dad, on her. They ask questions, I answer them. The curiosity of children. We feel her cooling hands. Feel here, and then here. See that? Cool, warm, cooler. One daughter, will they break, her fingers break, when they get stiff? I don't think so. We'll be careful, they'll be careful, they won't break her. We remark on her color changing as it changes. Its science class. Remember when we talked about waxy? This is waxy. Will her hair grow when she's in the coffin? It won't.

One of the daughters is the prettiest. She has lovely fine features, she is sweet by nature. Her hair shines. She smiles a smile at me. She has taken a shine to me. I have a shine to her. We would have a shine even if these weren't the circumstances. I wish I could keep knowing her.

I come one more time. All coming down. Normal conflict, normal stuff. Dad and his girls. It will be hard and they will do fine. I leave them. It was 10 days.

I can't know what they'll remember when they're 20, 30, 40, 80, dying. What they'll remember or not of me, what we said, what we did, what difference it will make or not make at any point in their lives.

I won't ever know that.