You will always be the Boss of me.

The summer before you died, when i came home to stay with you, we spent a lot of afternoons sitting on the deck, drinking ice tea in our sun hats, reading magazines. You had, (as you always did), piles of home interior magazines. You seemed to never tire of glossy pages with room after room of fabrics, furnishings, lighting, texture and color. I brought my past year's subscription of Yoga Journal and read articles on Ayurveda, meditation and alignment tips for poses I had been working on.
In the weeks that we had been home following your diagnosis, my siblings and I had quickly fallen into our roles as courtiers, of sorts, entertaining you by displaying our talents, gifts or efforts for your delight and amusement. Because you have strong Libran tendencies, in life you loved all things sensual. I tried often to create yummy things for you to eat, but it wasn't long at all before your body's need for earthly sustenance diminished, even before you mind was ready. It satisfied you for awhile to order up elaborate, exotic, or just very specific meals that you would eat, if you could...and then it became the responsibility of our brothers and Roger to eat your fancies, while you sipped on split pea soup. So unfair.
Meanwhile, my sister Megan was running around with her tool belt and a power drill, trying to re-create scenes that you found in your Interiors magazines. You pointed at the host on the do-it-yourself program beaming from the television set, telling your first born, the heart transplant nurse, "You should do that". It was remarkable how you directed an entire household to do your bidding by pointing a sharp-nailed finger into a magazine or at the television and then digging it into the arm of the person meant to execute the wish.
Speaking followed eating on the way out the door, and we developed some fairly primative modes of communication. Along with the visual aids and poking commands, you would often point in the general direction of the person you wanted to make commentary about. For example: we might be sitting at the table in the morning with our coffee, (which you still poured into a cup every morning and set to your lips, long after you stopped being able to drink it). While flipping through a mail order clothing catalogue you would point at an outfit and then point at me or yourself, to tell me who you thought would favor the style. Or you might point at something and give me a thumbs down if you thought it was ugly. I would repeat back to you my interpretation of your opinions and you would nod no or yes until you got your point across. It was an entertaining game, and kept you participating in conversations, even though your being was beginning its slow recede from this mundane world.
It was frustrating during that time to have so much silence surrounding your final time with us. I longed to hear your voice and ask you questions and take your commands or criticism or opinions on anything. I wanted you to retell every story I had ever heard pass your lips, I wanted to gather it all up and save it for the future when you wouldn't be here to deliver. So I didn't mind the endless games of 20 questions, modified charades and picture association, and as much as I wanted to indulge your wishes, I truly valued your voice.
So when I felt the finger poking through the cover of my yoga magazine that late summer afternoon, I peered over the top to find you with your big sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat. I raised my eyebrows at you and you pointed at the yogini on the front cover doing Eka Pada Galavasana, one-legged flying crow.
Then you pointed at me, then you pointed to free space on the deck next to my lawn chair. This meant, "I want to see you do that". Obediently, I stood up and began moving through some postures to warm up, while you sat along on your chaise, sipping tea, patiently waiting for me to perform. I think mothers are the first to recognize talent in their children, and it is their job to cultivate the natural gifts of their progeny by creating an atmosphere for practice. With respect to piano lessons and grades and general merit, you did this simply by saying." You are capable of this, therefore I expect it," there wasn't a lot of coddling or propping up.
That summer, yoga was my therapy. It was my outlet for all the stuff I couldn't possibly deal with straight on.. but I never thought of it as something I was actually good at. After several minutes of expanding and contracting and a fair amount of ungraceful shimmy-ing, I was balancing one leg on the backs of my tricep, while the other leg extended out behind me. I managed 2 or 3 breaths before literally hitting the deck. You smiled and nodded your head. "You should be a teacher", you said. With that, you stood up and went inside and I sat there staring at the cover of the magazine and felt that little seed plant.
It would be months before I could really think about anything besides surviving. But once you had passed, I started to cling to everything you had ever said, especially in the end, you were so economical with your words.
I don't know if it means the same thing where you are now, but for what its worth, you were dead on. I can't imagine anything feeling more right than teaching yoga.