I'm standing in the room where she was dying. She's talking in a high new voice, I've never heard before. "Why are there so many animals on the ceiling now?" she says

What are the very last things you say in your life? What are the last things you say, before you turn into dirt? When my mother died, she was talking to the animals that had gathered on the ceiling. She spoke to them tenderly. "All you animals," she said. Her last words, all scattered. Different trains. Places she'd always meant to go. "Don't forget you're in the hospital," we kept saying. She holds up her hand. "Thanks, so much... No, the pleasure is all mine." She tries again. "It's been my privilege, and my, my honour, to be part of this – experiment. This – experience – with you, and uh, your family and, and it's been, it's been..."

"Tell the animals" she said. "Tell all the animals."

Is it a pilgrimage? Towards what? Which way do we face? Thank you so much, for having me