I found myself driving down a road I knew all too well, doing my best to avoid thinking about my destination while scanning for a familiar sign. Funeral homes are those places we pass every day, yet we often pretend they don’t exist and hope we never need to find one.
Finally, I parked and cautiously entered the building. A warm, welcoming man jumped up from his seat to guide me to the guestbook, which I awkwardly signed before accepting a card with the name of the deceased and a comforting Bible passage. I had only met Marissa once, but she was the mother of one of my closest friends. As I slipped into the main viewing area, my eyes quickly scanned the room until they landed on my friend’s familiar silhouette.
I almost skipped this evening’s gathering. I hesitated, wondering if I should just attend the funeral service the following day instead. After all, viewings can feel so personal, especially when you don’t know the deceased well. But that day, I decided it was important to be present for my friend. She might need to see a friendly face during this tough time.
I’ve been fortunate not to have attended many wakes, which is why they still make me feel a bit uneasy. I was drawn to a video montage showcasing Marissa’s life and to the vibrant flowers that overflowed around her casket. The room felt bright, almost cheerful, thanks to the floral arrangements. In one corner, a large portrait captured Marissa in a candid moment, beaming with joy.
When I found my friend, she enveloped me in a tight hug, tears streaming down her face. I held her close, allowing her to cry. Just a year ago, her mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer, and it had been a year filled with goodbyes and farewells. I could feel the weight of her weariness.
Despite the somber occasion, it was easy to share a laugh and chat about our kids before the priest began to speak. However, as we settled into the pew facing the casket, I felt my friend start to unravel. The reality of the moment washed over her, causing her posture to stiffen and her eyes to glisten. I placed my hand on her shoulder, knowing this was the moment she truly began to grasp the gravity of her loss. After a year of goodbyes, this felt like a final door slamming shut.
Having lost someone I loved to cancer, I understood how sudden loss can feel. It’s always a shock, like a rug being pulled out from under you. As the priest spoke, I found myself tearing up while watching the slideshow of Marissa’s life flash across the screen. I didn’t know her well, but through those images, I saw reflections of my own experiences as a daughter and a mother. Life moments, so fleeting in real-time, were gathered in one place, telling the story of a woman who was now gone.
My friend turned to me, her voice trembling, “This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.” I squeezed her hand tightly, afraid she might bolt from her seat. It was an overwhelming sensation; the room suddenly felt too small. I couldn’t help but think about my own mother and how losing her would feel. Even though we don’t always see eye to eye, she’s the one who makes sense of the world for me. The mere thought of losing her brought the same desperation I saw in my friend’s eyes.
In that moment, sitting beside her, I felt the relentless passage of time. Life moves so quickly—one minute we’re children, then young women, and if we’re fortunate, we become mothers and eventually grandmothers. Then there comes a moment when our loved ones gather to share stories about us, their eyes filled with tears because every story has an end.
That evening, I wept alongside my friend—not just for her, but for all of us. I mourned the beauty of life, the journey we all take, and the certainty of its end. I grieved not only for the ones I would leave behind but also for those I would eventually lose. I recognized that in the chapters ahead, those walking beside me—friends, family, and loved ones—are the ones who will help me navigate the hardest times. Loss is inevitable, and though I’m not ready for it, I can’t help but think about how my children will face it one day too.
As I left that gathering, I felt the urge to hug my mom, my friends, my husband, and my children tightly. We said goodbye to Marissa that night, but I had the sense that I was also bidding farewell to something bigger. The chill of that realization has lingered with me ever since. Does it ever fade once you’ve felt it?