She spoke with the sad voice of experience. “Joanie, sometimes death is sweet and sometimes death is hard. Your daddy’s death was sweet.”
She was right. Mary Jim was my stepmother and when she spoke those words, it was April 1989. Funeral home personnel were wheeling Dad’s body out the front door. Dad’s death was sweet. We were all there with him. It was the way he would have wanted it. Over and over he had said, “Death is a part of life. When my time comes, I want you to let me go.” He was right. Continue reading