Ite, missa est.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes --
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs --
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round --
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought --
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone --

This is the Hour of Lead --
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --
First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go --

— Emily Dickinson

Nini passed this morning. Just as my flight touched down she let go.

I'll write more later: Right now there's much to do.

Thank you friends, for your kind words, wishes, prayers and hugs.