My sister and I are sitting with our mother in her hospice room. She lies in bed dressed in a hospital gown that ties at the back. The bed is upright so that she can visit with us. It is a hot, humid Minnesota day that arrives with a televised warning. I hold my mother’s hand during idle chat that amounts to nothing. Periodically, I lift a straw to her mouth so that she can have a sip of coffee. We are simply passing the time together, knowing that it’s limited.