In the End, All We Have Are Our People

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As I drove down the all-too-familiar street near my home, I tried to push aside the thoughts of where I was headed, yet my eyes searched for that unmistakable sign. Funeral homes are those places we see often but prefer to ignore, hoping we never have to know where they are.

I parked the car and stepped inside, feeling a bit uneasy. A kind-looking man sprang from an armchair and directed me to a guestbook. I awkwardly signed my name before accepting a card with the name of the deceased and a Bible passage. I had only met Carol once, but she was the mother of one of my closest friends. Quickly, I made my way to the main viewing room and spotted my friend, her back turned to me.

Honestly, I almost skipped this gathering. I wasn’t sure if I should attend since viewings are usually so personal, and I hardly knew my friend’s mother. I thought maybe it would be better to just go to the funeral mass the following day. However, earlier that day, I made the decision to go. My friend might need my support; it felt essential to be there for her.

I’ve been fortunate not to have attended many wakes, so they still make me feel quite shaky. My attention was drawn to the video montage of Carol’s life, with vibrant flowers overflowing around her casket. The room felt bright and cheerful, warmed by the blooms. In one corner, a large image of Carol captured her laughing, almost playfully.

When my friend saw me, she turned and embraced me tightly, tears streaming down her face. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her as she cried. Carol had been diagnosed with lung cancer just a year earlier, leading to a year filled with knowing, fighting, and saying goodbye. I could sense her exhaustion.

Before the handsome young priest took the podium, laughter and smiles were easy to come by; it felt like a moment to escape from the reality of saying farewell. We exchanged handshakes and chatted about our kids. But once the priest began speaking, facing the casket, photos, and flowers, I could feel my friend’s composure begin to crack. The reality of the situation crept up on her, causing her to sit up straighter as tears welled in her eyes. I placed my hand gently on her shoulder, aware that this was the moment the weight of her loss began to settle in. Even after a year of preparation, the finality of death always feels abrupt—like a sudden slap or the ground being pulled from under you.

As the priest spoke, I couldn’t help but let the tears fall as I watched the slideshow. Each image showed Carol at various stages of her life—a toddler, a young woman, a mother, and a grandmother. These snapshots captured a life fully lived, now at an end. In those moments, even though I didn’t know her personally, I could relate to her journey as both a daughter and a mother. They were fleeting moments, now gathered together to tell the story of a woman who was no longer present, yet had left so much behind.

My friend turned to me, her eyes wide with disbelief. “This isn’t happening,” she murmured, almost pleading. “This isn’t my mom. This isn’t real.” I gripped her hand tightly, fearing she might flee from her seat. I understood her feelings; the room felt overwhelmingly small. Though Carol wasn’t my mother, all I could think of was the future I dreaded—losing my own mom, my support system. Even when we don’t always agree, she makes sense of the world for me. Just the thought of her absence threw me into the same panic mirrored in my friend’s eyes.

In that moment beside my friend, witnessing her loss, I felt the world shift. Time moves so swiftly; one moment we are children, the next we are young women, and if we’re fortunate, mothers ourselves. Eventually, our loved ones will stand in a foreign room, sharing stories about us, their voices breaking with emotion, because every story has an ending.

I didn’t need to ask for whom the bell tolled that night. I cried for my friend, for all of us. I mourned not just for the beauty of life and its journey but for the inevitable end we all face. I recognized that as I move forward, the people who walk alongside me—my friends, my husband, my children—will help me navigate the toughest moments. Loss is unavoidable, and while I’m not ready for it, neither is anyone else. I’m especially not prepared to see my own children face it.

Once again, the message hit me: in the end, all we truly have are the people in our lives. They matter the most. Leaving that wake, I felt an overwhelming urge to hug my mother, my friends, my partner, and my kids. We said goodbye to Carol that night, but I felt as though I was saying goodbye to so much more. That chilling realization has lingered with me since then. Does that feeling ever truly fade?

This piece originally appeared on my blog.

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Summary

The article reflects on the emotional experience of attending a friend’s mother’s wake. It explores themes of loss, the importance of relationships, and the inevitability of saying goodbye. The author shares personal insights about the fleeting nature of life and the impact of loved ones during times of grief.