I am woken by the phone early in the morning.  The sun is barely starting to rise.  I reach across the floor for my cell phone without leaving the warmth of my bed.  I can feel the ice cold air penetrating my skin.
    "Hello," I say sleepily, trying to focus on my clock.
    "Mornin'," a deep shaky voice says on the other end, “I just got your message.  How is she?"
    "They moved her to a hospice," I can't hold back the tears, they cascade like a stream down my cheeks. "She's in a lot of pain.  You need to come now, as soon as you can.  She's asking for you." I sputter the words out almost inaudibly.
    “I won't be able to get there until tonight at the soonest," He tells me as calmly as he can, but I can still hear his voice shake, “I have to drive to Jackson to get on a plane."
    "Just hurry," I whisper into the phone.
    "I'll try my hardest.  I love you." He hangs up the phone.  I curl up under my blankets and let out painful sobs, trying to hold them back, until I drift back to sleep.
    My dad has never been good at handling situations that are beyond his control.  But let's face it, nobody is.  We just all have a different way of responding.  Me personally, I go into auto-pilot mode until its all over.  Then I can look back on the events and absorb them with less pain.  Or maybe it's just easier for me to suppress the pain that way.
    My dad, on the other hand, put himself under a blanket of denial.  It's as if he won't let himself believe what's happening is true, that way it won't be.  I'm never to sure if that is really true though.  He has a habit of retracting into himself when he doesn't want to deal with something.  I can't blame him though; I do the same thing quite frequently.  But not this time.  It wasn't important how any of us felt, or wanted to feel.  What was important was that we were there for her, that we would always be there for her, no matter where she went.
     I slowly woke up again, the salt burned in my eyes.  I pushed the covers away from my face and turned to look out the window.  The sun still hasn't come out.  It is overcast and cold, teetering on the edge of rain.
       

    I feel blindly under the covers for my phone.  My fingers slide over the small, smooth plastic rectangle.  I find my mom's name in my call list and push the soft rubbery send button.
    "Hello?" Her voice wobbles on the other end; she has been crying.
    "Mom?" I slowly say, "How are things?" A question I honestly didn't want to know the answer to.  I knew it wouldn't be good.
    "About the same," she says sullenly, "her pain is increasing.  They're giving her twice as much oxycodone as they're supposed to, but the pain isn't subsiding." She didn't have to say anything else.  When doctors do that, they're not worried about later addiction. They're just trying to ease the passing. "Have you talked to your dad?"
    "He said he would be on the first flight as soon as he gets to Jackson."
    "Good," is all that she can say about it.  We say our good-byes and hang up.
    I was the one to go pick up my dad from the airport.  Everyone else was at the hospice and didn't dare leave my aunt in her fading condition.  I knew my Mom didn't want me to see her that way, and neither did I.  But at the same time I needed to say good-bye.
    My little white two-seater sped to the airport.  It was dark out and just as cold as this morning.  Mist formed on my windshield.  Swish-swoosh, my wiper blades squeegeed the glass clean, and in a few minutes the mist was back.  Despite the soggy condition of the road, I reached the covered lot at the airport in no time. I pulled into the closest spot and quickly walked to the sliding doors.  The place was nearly deserted. I found the blue screen of incoming flights, Jackson Hole - delayed.  Why now?  I found an isolated corner to sit and wait.  I pulled my sketchbook out of my bag and tried unsuccessfully to put my mind someplace else.  I looked at my phone; it has been nearly an hour.  I return to the blue screen, Jackson Hole - delayed.  My phone rings.
    "Dad?" I say in a panic, "where are you?"
    "I'm on my way to Denver," he quickly says through crackling reception, "My flight had a layover in Cheyenne. It's raining real bad there; we were circling for almost an hour before they would let us land.  Now they won't let the plane leave.  I met a guy on the plane who's in a bind and needs to get to Denver too.  So we've split a rental car and we're on the highway right now.” Any where my dad goes he makes life long friends with complete strangers.  He says it's because he knows how to "Shoot the shit."
    "How long 'till you get here?" I try to ask calmly.
    “ "Bout an hour," he crackles "His car is parked in the lot off Tower Road.  Do you know where that is?
    "Yes," I blurt into the phone as I cram all my stuff into my bag. "I'll be waiting in the entrance, before the gate."  I know that area far to well after working at the airport for over a year.
    I sit in my car studying every pair of headlights that pass me.  Finally one stops and a tall man gets out totting two large bags.  I jump out of my car into the cold night air and he hugs me tightly.  It has been about a year since I've last seen him, and this has to be the conditions in which I see him again.  We drive straight to the hospice from the lot.  We ride in silence, only the emotional voice of Nina Simone spilling out of my speaker.
    We enter the lobby of the hospice.
    "Abernathy?" I ask the receptionist.  She begins to point and before she can say anything I see my mom, her eyes swollen and red.  I go to her and we wrap our arms around each other.  I can't help it, I start bawling like a baby.  How does she always do that to me every time I'm sad?
    After my dad gives her a hug, she takes us to my aunt's room.  As we turn down the corridor to all the patients' rooms I begin to notice the hospital smell of medicines getting stranger.  It makes me light-headed and a bit queasy.
    My mom leads us slowly, quietly into my Aunt Robin's room.  The shadow of uncertainty looms over us.  Robin's husband, my Grandma, Aunt Miriam and Cousin Kami are all scattered around my Aunt Robin.  She is lying in the hospital bed.  I.V.'s and oxygen are hooked up to her, among other hospital equipment that I don't understand.  Her skin looks as if it has been painted yellow, I know that means her liver is failing.  My Grandma reaches out and grasps my Aunt Robin's hand and says in a strong loud voice,
    "Robin, Danny is here," My aunt gives a groggy smile and reaches out for my dad.  He takes her hand and struggles to fight back the tears. "Erin has come to see you too." She struggles to give me another drugged smile.  After an hour or so my Mom tells me that it's ok if I need to leave.  I nod and go hug my Aunt and tell her goodbye.  I know I won't see her again.
    I return home and flop on my couch, exhausted.  My phone rings, it's my mom.  A lump forms in my throat.
    "Mom?" my voice shakes.
    "She's gone," my mom tells me as strongly as she can. "She was smiling."
    Several months have now passed.  The sun is shining, and I sit in the green grass of my front yard.  I hear the flutter of wings and turn to see the first robin of the summer.  I stand up and step lowly towards it.  The robin doesn't fly away.  Tears begin to roll down my face. As I watch the small bird watching me I smile to my Aunt Robin.