My mother passed away a little over two years ago, and it was so hard for all of us to deal with. This is a paper my daughter wrote for school, about the memorial service we had for my mother (her grandmother).
Auto Biographic Narrative
‘So Long and Goodbye’ By Liz Regan
The sound of soft chattering reached my ears. Sad faces, drowned in tears, pulled at the tight knot of my heart strings. The salty, bitter taste of my own tears cascading down my face filled my mouth and choked me. I touch the hard, cold wood of the casket, the only thing separating me from my beloved (and once breathing) grandmother.
The quiet sound of my choked sobs joined the chorus of those behind me. I sniffled lightly, only to be greeted with the smell of fresh-picked lemon, which was my grandma’s scent. I tugged at my black velvet neckline, my personal comfort gesture. I looked up from the ground, not only feeling, but seeing the physical wall between us, the living and departed.
Turning, I saw a woman, my mother, stood up to make a speech in the memory of Joy Campbell. Still listening, I turned to see the bright, almost luminescent, flowers that were so full of color and vibrant that they seemed so out of place here. They made my already blood shot eyes want to leak more, if that was even possible. The flowers’ perfumes all clashed together in a wonderful, yet somehow disgusting aroma.
Touching my drenched cheeks, I tried to dry them off, only managing to thoroughly soak a poor, defenseless tissue. I could practically choke on all the sorrow in the room. I felt something light land on my shoulder. Glancing up, I realized that it was a hand. Tracing up the hand, up the wrist, to the elbow, along the shoulder, and my eyes finally reached their destination. His face.
“It’s alright Liz,” my dad, the owner of the aforementioned hand.
“I’m okay Dad,” I replied trying (and completely failing to do so) to put on a tough façade. I looked at the ground, the one place that seemed to not totally seep out sadness in the large, beige room that was almost over-lapped in color by the amount of black. I tried hiding my tears; such a futile task.
“Then why are you crying?” sarcastically questioned my father. He was even an interrogator outside of work.
“I’m not crying,” I managed to choked out in denial between my sobs. The body I called my own betrayed my every single word. I was the pulled into a tight and unrelenting embrace. My eyes widened in shock at the sudden encirclement of my body (at the feeling of what very well might have been my ribs collapsing from how forceful the hug was). The only thing I could see while being squished into his chest was the jet black shirt he wore. The color seemed uniform here.
It was then I realized it. That no matter how many people leave and enter in my life, my family will always be there. That when I do have boy problems, that I’ll have my dad to fall back on and learn from that. With my mom, how to deal with female issues, and with my brother, well……I guess he’s good at math.
Once I finally calmed down a little bit, I just kind of relaxed. Everything felt alright and I could feel my heart untangle its self from the awkward position it was in. I listened to the other speeches and to the music, while mingling with the other mourners. Finally, I said my last goodbye, though it will never be returned.
“So long and goodbye,” I whispered.
My daughter is only twelve. When I first read this, my emotions ran wild. I had tears streaming down my face, and I had chills.
Your Eighty MPH Mom