As I navigated the well-trodden road near my home, I fought to keep my mind off my destination while scanning for the somber sign that indicated the funeral home. These establishments are part of our daily lives, yet we strive to remain blissfully unaware of their locations, hoping never to need them.
Upon parking, I hesitantly entered the building. A warm, welcoming man sprang from his seat and guided me to the guestbook, where I awkwardly signed in before accepting a card bearing her name and a biblical verse. I had only met Marissa once, but she was the mother of one of my closest friends. I made my way into the viewing area, my eyes quickly landing on the back of my friend’s head.
Initially, I had hesitated to attend that evening. The intimacy of viewings often felt overwhelming, especially since I hardly knew my friend’s mother. I considered just going to the funeral service the following morning. Ultimately, I decided to show up; my friend might need my support in this moment.
I have been fortunate not to have attended many wakes, which left me feeling somewhat unsteady. My gaze was drawn to a slideshow of images capturing Marissa’s life and to the vibrant flowers surrounding her casket, which brightened the room. In one corner, a large portrait of Marissa showcased her laughing in profile.
When I found my friend, she embraced me tightly, her tears flowing freely. I held her close, sensing the weight of her exhaustion. Her mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer a year prior, leading to a year filled with farewells and hard battles. Before the priest began to speak, we shared laughter and stories about our children, momentarily forgetting the gravity of the situation. But as the priest stood before us, I could feel my friend’s composure begin to waver. It was as if the reality of her loss was starting to sink in, and I placed my hand on her shoulder to offer comfort. After a year of saying goodbye, this moment felt like a door closing abruptly.
Having experienced loss myself, I understood all too well how sudden death can feel, even when it is anticipated. The priest’s words blended with the images on the screen, evoking tears as I witnessed snapshots of Marissa at different stages of her life—childhood, young adulthood, motherhood, and grandmotherhood. Each picture encapsulated a life now concluded, telling the story of a woman who had touched many lives.
My friend turned to me, disbelief evident in her eyes. “This isn’t happening,” she murmured, her gaze frantic. I grasped her hand tightly, fearing she might flee the scene. Though it wasn’t my mother lying there, I couldn’t help but think of my own impending loss. The very thought of losing my mother filled me with a despair that mirrored what my friend was experiencing.
Sitting beside her, witnessing her grief, I felt the weight of time and the fleeting nature of life. One moment we are children, then young women, and if fortunate, mothers and grandmothers. Eventually, our family members gather to share stories of us, their voices cracking with emotion. All stories have their endings.
That evening, I wept for my friend, for life’s beauty and transience. I mourned not only for the loss I would eventually face but also for the people I would leave behind. The realization struck me: in the end, our connections with others are what matter most. After leaving the wake, I felt a strong urge to embrace my mother, friends, husband, and children. As we bid farewell to Marissa, I sensed I was saying goodbye to much more. The chill of that moment lingered, prompting me to question whether it ever fades once experienced.
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In summary, life’s impermanence teaches us the importance of cherishing our loved ones. We must acknowledge the inevitable, but also embrace the connections that sustain us through life’s challenges.