Passing the torch

The day of my mother's service is a day that I still don't remember completely. To me, everything seems like a blur. I do remember thinking that I couldn't believe what we were actually doing . . . that we were burying my mother. Everyone appeared on edge and of little words. And me, I was screaming inside. All I wanted was for my mother to be.

We arrived at the church for the service . . . and there she was - laying down in a box. She was dressed in one of her favorite suits. She looked so peaceful, she looked like she was asleep. But, I knew differently. But oh how I would have traded places with her - she deserved to be here. In my opinion, she wasn't done yet . . . we weren't done yet - there was so much more for her to accomplish as a professional and so much more for us to accomplish as mother and daughter. Apparently, though, that wasn't the case. Her time had come and it couldn't have been clearer than looking at the front of the church seeing her laying there. Peaceful.

I don't remember much of the service. My aunts did a couple of readings, one of my mother's close co-workers and my brother gave a eulogy. And the whole time my brother was speaking, all I could think was that he was so stoic, together, calm. Meanwhile, I was just numb. Looking around the church all I could see was a sea of people - it was standing room only. All these people who had crossed paths with my mother either permanently or temporarily had come to say their final goodbyes. It was an amazing sight. I think the breaking point for me during the service was when these very people did, in fact, say their final good byes to my mother. For, I guess as tradition or protocol holds, you then (again) express your condolences to the family. I can't tell you how many hands I shook, how many faces (familiar and unfamiliar) I saw, how many times I heard "I'm sorry". And I think it was the first time I ever saw my brother shed a tear over our mother's death.

After the service, I (yes, me) led the procession away from the front of the church holding a picture of my mother, my cousins were behind me holding my mother's casket. I remember focusing so hard on walking. I couldn't see through the tears that were just streaming down my face. It was too much for me. See, nothing really prepares you for a moment like this. Nothing prepares you for the loss of a parent, let alone how to get through a service in his/her honor.

When we finally got back to the house after the service at the cemetery, there was so much to be done - food to be put out, drinks to be served, people to be tended to. And this is where I finally felt some sort of familiarity - the hostess-ing. Immediately, I saw to the caterers, made the rounds to see that everyone had a drink, etc. I made small talk with people, listened in on some conversations where people were reminiscing about my mother - the good, the bad, the crazy. Throughout the day, my focus was on the guests - to make sure that everyone had what they needed. When I took a moment to breath, it was then I heard some guests talking about me. Revelling in how I had stepped into my mother's role of hostess so seamlessly. That on the first day of having to be the matriarch, I had done my mother proud.

Of course that was a proud moment for me, but a sad one as well. I didn't want that role. I didn't chose for that to happen when it did. But, in a house full of guests - what was I to do? I know my mother would have wanted me to take the reins and do what she would have done. All those parties she had where she had me running around like a maniac finally made sense to me. She did that so when it was my time, I would be able to pull off being a hostess to the degree that she did. So that I wouldn't question what I thought needed to be done, so that everything would flow smoothly and no one would notice the great effort it took to make it all happen. And there I stood, surveying the crowd of people in the house and making a mental list of who needed what, where there needed to be more food, where there were things that needed to be cleaned up. There I stood . . . in her shoes.