Flora: 05.21.2013

I was 15 and walking into my first funeral. The sickening sweet, thick smell of the lilies that surrounded her casket hit me hard. They awoke me from the daze that I had been walking around in since I heard the news.

She was only 39. Major arterial blockage leading to a massive heart attack. Completely unexpected. Entirely life shattering for me.

She was my person. Someone I looked up to. Someone I trusted. She was supposed to be there, always. Then, just like that, she wasn’t. These lilies were making me sick.

As a child I could always count on a themed birthday cake made lovingly by her. She was a talented artist and equally amazing baker. She put everything into the things she created. Especially if it was for her nieces or nephews.

We were her world. She never did have children of her own. Why would she? She had the six of us. We filled her life with laughter and smiles. She had more time to spend on us than if she had had her own kids. The love and adoration went both ways.

It was my turn to speak. Somehow my legs found the strength to carry me to the podium. I glanced over at her body. It wasn’t her. It looked alot like she did, but something was missing. Her light. I opened the paper containing my poem with my shaking hands and took a breath. The thick lily-air nearly choked me.

I rarely shared my writing with people. When I did, she was always included. She loved my words and would encourage me to keep writing. After she died I found it hard to concentrate, hard to write. I was able to write a short poem in her honor for the service, but that was it. I stayed blocked for years. I would try to write about her, about anything, but found it too painful.

I finished my poem and folded the paper. I could feel her all around me. I felt comfort and deep pain all at once. The unfairness of the situation was way too overwhelming for my adolescent brain.

That day and the days that followed changed me. They shaped me and introduced me to real loss. A realization that I still struggle with to this day, nearly 19 years later. I still miss her. I still feel our connection. My daughter was born the day before what would have been her 55th birthday even though I was not due for another 2 weeks. Little signs that she is still there. Still loving me.

The service came to an end. I stood in the receiving line with my family as the numerous guests shared their condolences. I don’t remember a single word or face. All I could think about was getting out of that building and away from those lilies. I finally was able to step outside. The sun was blinding and the air refreshing. The pain subsided a little. I took another breath. She wouldn’t want me to be sad. “Celebrate me,” she would have said. I tilted my head towards the sun, and took yet another deep breath.

It was going to be ok. It would hurt like hell for a long time, forever, maybe. But, someday, I would think of my aunt and smile. I would celebrate her and the effect she had on me. Every daisy chain I made with dandelions would bring memories of her. Every birthday party for my daughter would also be a celebration of a woman she never met. I would become grateful for the time I did have with her.

I caught up with my cousins as we walked to our grandparents house. We smiled, we laughed. We left the funeral and the thick, sweet smell of the lilies behind. We walked toward our bright futures with her spirit in each of us.