It’s been two weeks today since my mother died. She died. She is dead. I can’t say she “passed away.” I can’t. She is dead. It is a fact. I don’t like using euphemisms for death. Maybe it is impolite but I don’t care. Someone who knew my mom was sick but didn’t know that she died asked me today how my mom was doing. I said, “She died.” There is something in the shock of saying it that makes it real. When my brother died, my mom and I always said he was “murdered” or “killed.” We couldn’t say that he “passed away” or “passed on.” Death is final. And that is okay.