Colby

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Dianna Mason whispers with glistening eyes. She pulls me into a hug, which seems to soothe her more than me. No doubt she grieves the loss of Mama—they were in diapers together. Still, each offered condolence brings me one step closer to losing my composure.

All family has been instructed to wait behind the seating of the graveside service, giving us the opportunity to greet Mama's guests as they arrive. I'm pleased by the turnout in her honor, and even more so, that Daddy seemed to know exactly what she'd wanted.

Despite having a funeral director, the planning process has been enormously onerous. From the moment we lost Mama, my brothers, Dad, and I have been working tirelessly to prepare for today, leaving little opportunity for the finality of it all to set in. While he's been tense throughout all the planning, Daddy has remained a presence, much to my Aunt Julie's disapproval.

Aunt Jules is Mama's little sister and her best friend in the world. She and my uncle Dennis visited Mama frequently, traveling from their home in North Carolina multiple times a year to drop in on her. Every day she called to check in, though most days Mama couldn't recall who she was.

Aunt Jules and Uncle Den made it into town a couple of days ago, and I've never seen her so broken. She's been out of sorts and has barely even spoken to my brothers or me since her arrival. I am grateful for the help they've both offered, although, for Aunt Jules I believe it's been more in an attempt to distract herself from her grief.

We greet person after person as they filter in from the parking lot, and after the first twenty or so, my responsiveness to their kind words tapers into pre-programmed acknowledgments. Nothing they say changes the fact that she's gone.

My friends leave me pleasantly surprised with their support. Wynona and Cole arrive together, soon followed by Ari and Mari. Nash has been here almost as long as I have, having come with Reverend Porter and his mama. Morgan came alone but was joined later by Lana, who was one of the last people I expected to see here.

The truth is, funerals aren't for the dead, nor are they for the closure of the families of the deceased. They exist to make people feel like they're helping those who were left behind cope with their loss. I appreciate the efforts of everyone who has taken the time to be here, and for all the love, lasagnas, and egg casseroles they've showered us with over the past week, but the loss remains.

Over the last few days, the emotions have come in waves. As I wrote my eulogy for Mama, all I felt was relief- relief that she no longer had to live a life void of memories and joy, and relief that I no longer had to fear losing her.

Guilt quickly followed, along with regret and sadness so profound that sleep hasn't met me in days.

And then there's disbelief.

For most, mothers are a constant. They're the ones that can be relied upon, and some of the only people in life who'll love you without condition.

The hardest realization is that I will never get to share my day with her again, or see her light up when I enter the room. Even with her imperfections, she was a treasure beyond compare. I suppose she was never mine to hold onto. She was out on loan to us, but God was ready to have her back.

I choose to harbor no ill will. Instead, I'm abundantly grateful to have been blessed with the time we had together. Still, I'll miss her desperately.

"It's time for the family to be seated," Reverend Porter says gently, ushering us all down the aisle.

Every eye is upon us, all of the familiar faces of friends and colleagues standing as we tread between them. I breathe easily once Wyatt is in my line of sight. He and Maryanne have been here as long as the rest of my family and me, but as more people arrived, they excused themselves to be seated. I spot them in the remaining seats at the end of the row reserved for immediate family, as surely Mama would've demanded.

The grass is still plush and vibrant under my feet as we make our way to our seats, my anxiety increasing with each step.

Mama's walnut casket sits slightly off center from where Reverend Porter takes his post at an ornate stand with floral arrangements brightening either side. A stunning photo of her leans on an easel between the reverend's stand and her casket, and the sight of her in perfect health causes pressure to build behind my eyes.

We reach our places, and Wyatt takes my hand. Our fingers intertwine and I am confident that I can make it through this. Reverend Porter motions us to be seated, and all at once we settle into our cold, white chairs.

"We're here today to celebrate the life of our beloved, Tanzie Mae Byers," he begins kindly. "She was the definition of beauty, not only outwardly, but through her selfless love for all those she knew."

His words touch the inner depths of my soul, bringing the tears I've fought back since we got here to the surface. He continues on, my mind unable to receive his gentle meditations. I've retreated into my personal thoughts in the fear that if I allow myself to hear him, I won't make it through my own address.

A woman from the church worship team takes Reverend Porter's position at the stand. Her voice is pure and captivating as she sings an offering of praise on Mama's behalf. The lyrics resonate within me, and my brief escape from this moment diminishes with each note. My body aches with despair as sobs rack my entire frame. Wyatt squeezes my shaking hand as tremors from my anguish engulf me. His strength and encouragement urge me forward as the song comes to a close, the vocalist raising her hands in triumphant submission to the heavens with her hymn.

Since the day Mama passed, the skies have been gray, filled with dark, threatening clouds looming overhead. The downpour of rain was relentless as though God himself shed tears for our loss alongside us.

Today breathes whispers of new hope. From the moment I opened my eyes this gorgeous morning, the day has been clear and bright, and I realize as the singer extends her hands in glory that this day isn't about goodbye, but a celebration of Mama's healing.

I rise to take my place at the stand, and Wyatt hands me a folded up sheet of spiral edged paper from his pocket where I managed to scribble out some semblance of a speech. I approach the microphone, the paper rustling in my clammy grasp as I smooth it against my dress. I clear my voice to speak as I gaze across the large gathering of people.

Mama touched all of them in some way, or they wouldn't be here. The thought prevents any words from passing my lips, causing them to catch somewhere in my throat.

Everyone watches me uncomfortably. They know I should be speaking my now, but my ability to share my heart has vanished. I practiced this eulogy a thousand times over, and here I am, frozen.

In all honesty, it's because what I've written is full of everything I should have told Mama. Memories of who she was, and how fiercely she loved—everything I want to become. I'm not nervous to speak... to put it simply, I'm just too sad.

I stand there silently for long enough that people begin whispering amongst themselves. I must look like a complete fool, but I can't muster up the energy to care. I look over at the enlarged photo of Mama and lose the last bit of poise I'd maintained.

The tremors return, and I stagger into an abyss of my own grief. Seeing her there, knowing she will never return to me breaks me absolutely. I cross over to where she lays cased permanently in her walnut place of rest. I weep inconsolably, leaning over Mama's casket and watch as my tears roll down its unblemished surface.

The sound of footsteps seizes my attention, approaching from behind. Arms wrap around me, embracing my quivering form.

I breathe in Wyatt's masculine scent, finding the courage to once again acknowledge my circumstances. I turn in his arms, burying myself in his warmth and forcing myself to relax. I should be embarrassed for losing my mind in the presence of this mass of individuals, but hiding my emotions is no longer a possibility.

He takes my hand, leading me back to the microphone stand. My speech is crumpled in my palm, and Wyatt reaches for it, stretching its tattered edges on the stand before us.

"She was so much more than a mother," he begins, reading the words calmly as if they were his own. "She was my best friend. A woman of great moral character and a beacon of strength throughout the time we were blessed to share." I stand at Wyatt's side, taking in my own written thoughts as he works his way through them.

"Her resilience helped her endure the heartache of her condition, but her faith gave her the courage to conquer it. In truth, she's the lucky one. She is whole, and lovely, and perfect in her new life, and I anxiously await the moment she will hold me again. Until then, I will strive to grow, molding myself into some semblance of the woman she taught me to be."

He concludes my speech, fighting back his own emotion. He is steady and cool, but his eyes are rimmed with the redness of sorrow.

"In my own words," he adds unexpectedly. "Miss Tanzie was a second mother. She took me into her home as if I was one of her own children, and along with my own mother, taught me what a real woman should be. I visited her frequently throughout her illness, watching her steadily decline, but even in that time, she never failed to encourage me. With few words, she could convey her thoughts and support better than anyone I've ever known. To say I'll miss her is an understatement. She will never be forgotten."

He inclines his head toward the crowd, and we return to our seats. Another song begins, but I don't hear it.

My eyes are on Wyatt, awed by his revelation. He returns my gaze, a sheepish smile on his face.

Wyatt was there. Even when there wasn't an 'us', he was present, spending time with my mama.

I've never doubted his love for her, but the knowledge that he spent time with her as she drew further away from this life touches me deeply. Daily, he surprises me in the most unexpected ways.

I will never deserve him.

...

I couldn't go home.

I know what it is. Denial.

Yet, I simply couldn't bring myself to go there, the reminders of my loss overwhelming.

So, with no other real alternatives, Wyatt took matters into his own hands, dragging out the blow up mattress he has for camping trips and taking me out to the old ash tree. We blew the mattress up in his truck bed, piling on every blanket we could find and taking up position in the back of the truck.

The night is crisp and cool, but I'm plenty warm, my body molded to the length of his. Wyatt runs his hands soothingly over the curve of my hip, and I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart beneath me.

The sky is clear, alight with countless stars and a waning moon. The breeze rustles the leaves overhead, the gentle sounds forging a captivating calm. For the first time all week, I breathe.

Peace.

"Are you alright, B?" Wyatt asks quietly.

"I'm okay, Dodge," I whisper.

And I am.