Photo Source: Free Range It’s Mother’s Day, and you come to visit me again. I hear your voice. You come to me as an apparition. Then you return to your wooden box of ashes in the living room, the spirit of your burnt remains on a dusty shelf. Now that you’re dead, I can hear your words more clearly. There are no crazy, garbled words or bizarre accusations flying over my head. There is no telling me to sit up straight in a chair, read the business section of the Sunday...