That day

We went to church with Dad the Sunday after Mom died.  What a hard day.  Later that afternoon we would make the short trip to the funeral home, to see mom one last time.  I sat in church thinking about how much my mom looked forward to church.  This was her only time to socialize. She had a circle of friends there who she sat with for a few minutes each Sunday before mass, catching up on the week and showing the latest pictures of her youngest granddaughter.   One friend, Phyllis, sat in the same pew with my parents. Phyllis was older than my mom and often fell asleep during mass.  My mom used to joke about how she would have to nudge her awake in time to take communion.  (A side note: Phyllis told me that, in conversations she had had with my mom, that my mother was ready to die...what did that mean?  I never had a chance to ask her). These were some of the few times that I saw my mother smile and laugh in these last few years.  When she would talk about her zany friends at church and her youngest granddaughter, my daughter, she would smile.  My daughter could make my mother laugh out loud.  How I savor those memories.

I can't even remember what happened between church and the funeral home, strange huh? I know we ate, but beyond that, it is gone.  I guess it is because the memory of what happened at the funeral home is so strong, so intense, that everything around it, sort of, disappeared.  Today, more than three months later, I can close my eyes and see the scene as though it were right in front of me.

We arrived at the funeral home right on schedule.  My stomach was in my throat as we met up with my brother  in the parking lot.  I didn't want to go in.  If  I could have, I would have taken off.  I would have run far, far away.  What I was about to see and experience was something that you can not prepare yourself for -- ever.  It is something that now, in hindsight, I wish I had not done.

My Dad and sisters went first.  My brother and I, arms locked, paused at the door.  He asked me if I was ready, I said no...but we walked through the door anyway.  He and I gasped when we saw her, and  I started to cry from what seemed like the deepest part of my soul.  It hurt so much at that moment that I didn't think I could go on. The intensity of that moment, the intensity of the grief I felt, if it had been a sword, would have slain me.  Yet, even in the intensity of the moment, I felt the arms of my Heavenly Father.   He was holding me up, allowing me to walk forward.

And there she was.  She looked like she was sleeping, like I could nudge her awake.   As I looked at her, the reality of the past few days began to hit me.  It rang in my head: My mother is dead, there is no waking her, she isn't here, she's gone - forever

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