This poem by Thomas Hardy is a beautiful way of capturing how we feel now Mum has passed on. Whilst we miss her dearly, it is such a relief that she is no longer suffering. After Her Last Breath There's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped; None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire; No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped Does she require. Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or stay; Our morrow's anxious plans have missed their aim; Whether we leave to-night or wait till day Counts as the same. The lettered vessels of medicaments Seem asking wherefore we have set them here; Each palliative its silly face presents As useless gear. And yet we feel that something savours well; We note a numb relief withheld before; Our well-beloved is prisoner in the cell Of Time no more. We see by littles now the deft achievement Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all, In view of which our momentary bereavement Outshapes but small.