More Than Once a Day, I Wish My Mother Were Dead.

Perhaps I’m a horrible person, an ungrateful, selfish, possibly even reprehensible son. But, more than once every day, I wish my mother were dead.

My father waved the white flag at the Grim Reaper just three weeks shy of what would have been his 95th birthday. Clearly, he harbored no fear of death. He knew the end was imminent. Still, he hung on a little too long — his exit was…