And mortification includes joy. In The Summer of the Great-Grandmother, at my mother’s death at ninety, in her grandson’s arms, I grieved deeply because she was a remarkable mother and I loved her, and I was also full of joy because her life had been full and rich, and we had been able to keep her at home to die, surrounded by those she loved. There were many, many cousins to phone. Some of them shared the joy and grief. A few were appalled that I sounded joyful. “How can you?” they asked. I replied, “She was ninety and it was time. There was nothing ahead for her but further sliding downhill.
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