This Friday, my mom passed. It was just a few hours before the strike of midnight, on December 23.
My dad called at night, telling me that he had come home and that my mom had passed.
I rushed home. Everything felt fake. I thought I would be okay.
We sat there, holding on to her cold body. Her hands were clenched, her feet were shriveling.
Parts of her body looked blue or purple.
Her lips, colorless and dry.
She looked as if she were sleeping though.
We held her in our arms. My dad shed tears of frustration, something I never saw before.
He hated her for leaving us like that. He shouted at her to come back, that it was unfair for her to leave us here.
I called her name, thinking, or hoping, maybe that she would open her eyes, or let out a breath. Nothing.
We called a doctor. He told us that she had died around 5:30 pm. She was alone.
I felt terrible. It was some guilt I suppose.
My dad looked insane and empty. We couldn’t believe it. Even after holding on to her and calling her name for hours.
Her whole world revolved around me. Even to her final days.
I didn’t know what to do, what to say.
We called the hospital and asked if there was a place for her funeral to be held.
Only the biggest room, they said.
We took her to the hospital, cloth over her head.
The weather was insanely cold, and the night air was piercing.
After death, they put her in a morgue. They sprayed her with something to keep away infections.
They asked us to keep the key to her door.
Then they took us into the other room to discuss the funeral.
Even when dying, the prices of the funeral home spooked me.
We didn’t have anyone to help with the process. I called around and looked for professional help.
I sent everyone I knew messages about the funeral.
Everything said and done, we arrived back home at 4, and prepared to go back to the hospital to start the funeral around 9:30.
I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop crying. Morning came, and waking up seemed like dream.
The feeling of waking up to something dreadful, felt as if I were waking up from a coma, or surgery.
I wasn’t in pain, nor was I in a state of anger.
It was just numbness. Numb, but still awake enough to feel that something was terribly wrong.
The feeling of something bad but also inevitable.
That’s how the funeral started. Empty.
Me and my dad, the funeral home, just empty.
I was scared that my mom would leave, like that. Alone. Just as she had died. It killed me to see her picture on the wall, surrounded in ornate flowers with a incense stick burning in front of her.
You must be logged in to post a comment.