The days and nights leading up to my mothers funeral were a blur. Thankfully, my sister, brother, and father made all of the funeral arrangements. I ran around like that chicken with it's head cut off. Trekking back north to my sisters after going to my step-daughters school to talk to her teacher. I had to find babysitters and shop for clothes, since none of us had funeral attire. I wrote a poem for my mother, gathered pictures, and put them on poster board as a tribute to my mothers life. The boards were to be set up in the church. Honestly, I can't even remember everything I did just to keep busy and keep my mind off of the impending day of sadness.

The morning of the funeral, a limo picked us up at my fathers house. There we sat in our black dresses and black suits... my father, my brother, my sister, my brother-in-law, my husband, and myself. Nothing but silence. All we could hear was the faint drizzle outside. The limo arrived and took us to Holy Rosary Church on Philadelphia Pike in Claymont, Delaware. This was the church my family and I had attended since before I was even thought of. As we pulled up to the church, a wave of anguish washed over me. My body and spirit were numb. I did not begin crying until I entered the church and laid eyes upon my mothers body in her mahogany coffin.

As I approached what was once my mother, I could literally hear the voice in my head repeating "why is this happening? Why is this happening? Why is this happening?" In my mothers coffin, I laid a copy of the poem I wrote, a picture of my daughter in a frame, and flowers: A large white lilly, which was my mothers favorite flower, and a large white daisy, which is my favorite flower. Together they were tied by a long, white piece of ribbon. I made two, so I would have one to keep. The flowers were silk, so I knew they would never die. Just like my love for my mom.

Next came the single worst moment of my life. I kissed my mothers forehead. She was colder than ice. Lifeless. It wasn't like the hundreds of times I kissed my mothers forehead before and would feel her warmth, love, and life. That one moment will haunt me for eternity.

For the next hour and a half, I had to stand at the front of the church along with my father and siblings. We had to "greet" everyone as they went to pay their respects to my mother. Eight out of every ten people were crying, giving us their sympathy. For this sliver of time, I did not cry. I was in awe of the amount of people coming in. These people who all loved my mother. Some of them, I didn't even know. I knew then that her life was short, but well-lived.

I can't remember much of the rest of the funeral. The priest spoke, we said our final goodbye (I was sobbing at this time), we covered the coffin, and sang sad Catholic songs.

This next tid-bit doesn't matter much, but it mattered enough to bother me. My then 11 year old nephew, Brandon (my brothers son), showed up late because his mothers' mother obviously didn't think it was important for him to be at his mommom's funeral on time. Apparently, he was up late the night before playing video games and his grandmother let him sleep. This absolutely infuriated me. But at least it was a small distraction from all of the tears.

We laid my mother to rest at Lawncroft Cemetery next to her mother, who died 8 years prior. Each person put a rose on the coffin and we said a prayer. Though it was mid-April, it was freezing outside.

My mother was now officially laid to rest. She was "with Jesus and the angels" as my daughter said. Sadly, there would be no rest for the rest of us. The one's left behind.