I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

After my mother, Gloria and Matthews passed away for several years.

I reached for the mustard-colored landline on the wall in my kitchen to call her.

It was as though my body had not caught up with my broken heart.

Her funeral brought out legions of old friends who testified to the gentleness of her soul

and strength of her bonds.

She died of cancer, which emerged out of remission.

Her impending death was expected.

I was still shocked at the swiftness of her decline.

I'm still haunted by images of her loneliness.

I saw it in her pleading face the evening I sent my last goodbye where she lay

in a hospital. Her eyes begged for understanding in that way in which you know

the final journey has begun.

Those days of mourning are blur.

My sadness was manifold.

I get the sense she did not know the depth of love around her.

I distinctly remember wishing that she could have heard all the people who admired

her immense spirit, who took joy in her company,

who wished they could have been more like her.

Patient, forgiving, intelligent,

living funerals and celebration of life ceremonies are common practice these days.

Irrashnor or not, I truly believed had we queued a line

...