It was January, and now it feels like a never-ending winter in my heart. The viewing and the funeral took place over two surreal days, much of which remains a hazy whirlwind in my mind. In those moments, time seemed to stand still while simultaneously slipping away.

There was my beautiful, vibrant girl, in her casket looking so peaceful – a sleeping angel cradled by satin. She was dressed in a soft pink sweater. On her right wrist, a rose gold and silver cross bracelet I had chosen for her dangled delicately. There was a bouquet in her hands, and she was wearing her sister’s necklace. 

This past Christmas, I gave them each a gold necklace with a bubble letter initial. Sister decided to keep Kay’s necklace and gave her own to the funeral home for her sister to be buried in.

I couldn’t help but think about how Kay and Sister were mirror images of each other. Sister, right-handed. Kay, left-handed. Even in this heartbreaking moment, those little details about her brought a wave of bittersweetness – her individuality, her uniqueness, her essence.

There were so many flowers, more than I could have imagined. Bouquets and sprays surrounded her, filling the space with color and fragrance. It was overwhelming in the most beautiful way. She was so deeply loved, and the room was alive with the evidence of how many lives she had touched.

I placed an envelope inside the casket with a letter I had written to Kay the night before. It was what I needed to say to her.

At the viewing, people came and went. Faces blurred together as I stood there, numb, clutching onto my programmed responses.

Hug.

Say “Thank you for coming.”

Hug again.

I didn’t want to think. I couldn’t think.

The next day, the funeral was no different, with an ocean of faces, tears, and love. The funeral home was full of friends and relatives, and the service was beautiful, just as Kay deserved.

It was a meaningful tribute to her life, but my heart was heavy because this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I shouldn’t be at my child’s funeral. A parent shouldn’t outlive their baby.

When the service ended, everyone shuffled outside, leaving me with the moment I dreaded most: the last goodbye. We were asked to say our final farewells before the casket was closed. I stood there, frozen, staring at her—my baby girl.

I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t let her go. In my heart, I begged: Please bring her back to me. Please, God, please.

As the world seemed to fade around me, my husband JT wrapped his arms around me, guiding me out of the room. And with him, I moved forward.

Minutes later, her casket was gently placed into the black hearse by the pallbearers, made up of her uncles and cousins. 

Everyone took their places in cars in line behind the hearse, and I watched as the procession of vehicles stretched behind us for over a mile all the way to the cemetery. 

Kay was to be laid to rest near her great-grandparents. Right where we all felt she would want to be. Her great-grandma passed when Kay was 13, and she loved her Granny beyond words.

At the graveside, we prayed together one final time. Someone handed me a single rose from the flower spray on her casket to keep, a small yet powerful reminder of the love that would remain. 

And just like that, the physical presence of my sweet Kay was gone.