Hangers are all that dominate my sister’s closet. They hang there desolately, like sentries with no one to watch. Cynthia departed two days ago and headed back to California. It was her final visit to my mother’s home. Back in transit at Taipei airport, she found the same quiet spot where she sat a month ago, soaked in the sadness of my mother’s death. She called me. Her voice broke as she recounted the pain of disbelief that my mother didn’t have enough breath to last until her arrival.