“Sure. Why the POA?”
“Mom has terminal cancer. Not yet but very soon she’ll need heavy morphine. I’ll handle her affairs.”
We meet at Hospice. Agnes is sitting up, hair brushed, alert, as pleasant and composed as Emily. She signs the POA, we find witnesses. We chat, then: “Thanks, Paul, so very much. Goodbye!” Hand on my arm, no self-pity. As I leave, mother and daughter carry on, chatting amiably. They make the most of it.
All the time in the world.