Day 91 - Ninety-One Days Since your Stroke

Mom, it's been 91 days since your stroke. How do I know? Scrabble reminds me every morning when I open it up. I sure do miss our games together. Remember how sometimes we would have as many as ten games going at once? More typical, of course, would be half a dozen.
  In the picture visible here, it shows 91 days ago that you made your last move. Actually, you did not make a word. You passed. You passed on three games. Why you passed I still don't know. I have this image in my mind that you had just had your stroke, and you were trying to communicate to me the best way you knew how: with your ipad, through the Scrabble app. It was by far the app you used the most. You might be playing twenty games at once all together.
  "Ruins" was the word I made 78 days ago while beside your bed at the nursing home. You had just made the word "Lass." Little did I know that would be the last word you would ever make in Scrabble. Life is strange. When I see the word "ruins", I can admit, yes, my life is in ruins without you. I seem to have lost my purpose. My whole purpose in life these last eight years has been taking care of you. Now I can no longer do that, but I will continue taking care of Nikki for you. It is hard to tell if he misses you, but whenever he is alone in the living room, I can't help but believe he is missing you. And every time I pet him, I pet him for you.
  How eerie it is now to see the word "passed." Now it takes on another meaning. You passed away on September 20th. That was Day 42 since your stroke, so I suppose that would be 49 days ago today. May you rest in peace. I still have not created a tombstone for you, but I promise that I will. I never visited Father's grave, and I don't think any of us ever did. We just do not believe he is there. We always pictured him somewhere far better. That is where I picture you, as well, but I still want to honor your grave, which is right beside by my dad's. It's hard to believe that 30 years ago I used to drive by that cemetery, never knowing that someday both my parents would be buried there. It was especially hard to imagine because in 1982 you were both still living in Illinois, and I never imagined that in 1990 the two of you would retire to Houston. Dad passed away in 1995, and you passed away in 2012.