Good-bye February.

One year ago on this day my sister called me. I was sitting in my blue chair, just getting home from the Bronx where I had started tutoring at Mercy College.

"Hi Sis," I said, feeling glad to hear from her. Her voice, though, sounded strained, and I feared she was about to tell me something very sad. And indeed she did.

"I'm at the hospital. Mom has had a stroke."

And those two short sentences began a new chapter in our lives. I knew our mother had been through enough physical struggles that this stroke was the window being opened to guide her to the next leg of her journey. And it was. On April 13 of that same year, I held her hand and watched her pulse cease on her neck. "Go, Mom!" I cheered for her. She was finally free.

Now, a year later, my sister and I dread this day. I officially am not a fan of February anymore even though I know it was my mother's time, no way around it. I know the frustration and sadness is for me to unravel for she is free, my mother, and she is having a grand time evolving and learning from her life here. I am forever grateful to her for choosing to be my mother as I chose her as well.

My daughter, Sarah, spoke to me a few weeks ago and told me to heal before I started "Jumping Off a Cliff with My Mother: Learning to Glide," and I understand what she means. I needed to see this day come and to face it. Tonight I will light a candle and call my sister this time. And it will be a conversation meant only for us.

Even though we know our mother will be listening, stroking our hair in that magical way she does.