It wasn't my move to DC that did it.
It wasn't the death of my high school friend's brother recently (too premature and too unfair) that did it.
It wasn't even seeing the picture I hung of her (when she was a wee one) near the place where my grandchildren will find toys to play with when they come to visit that did it.

What did it was getting things ready for the accountant who would file her last tax return.

Asking my brothers about practical matters - what is taxable and what is not - brought on a well of tears.

You could be funny and say we all cry when we think about paying taxes.

But that's not what did it.

It was thinking of her, all those months and years, watching her investments grow so that maybe, someday, she could retire and live again in the land of Oz, her Kansas, but only after she took care of all of us first.

It'd be easier (but probably not as effective) if I could predict when this horrible sadness would show up in me. Instead, like a shot in the stillnes of the night, I'm wounded unexpectedly.

I'll recover. I just won't be quite the same.