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Did my father know that his death was imminent? Five years ago, when he was wheeled into his Edinburgh flat for what would be his last Christmas, it seemed that illusion was taking over. He assured me that he was improving. At 72, he insisted he would make it to 80. But his eyes seemed to suggest otherwise: There was something about the way they watered when I blasted Edward Elgar’s Nimrod through the living room speakers. He loved that variation. My mother has not been able to listen to it since then, because it has become one of those minefields that mourning sets up after a loss. Why would she stand on him if she can choose not to?