August 8, 2024
It was the spring of 1997 when my cousin, Angie’s, precious 5- year- old daughter, Angel, was struck by a car, while riding her bicycle, and died. I remember going over to my Aunt Barbara’s house with my mother and hearing Angie crying in the shower over the loss of her sweet Angel. It wasn’t just crying. It was something I had never heard before, a guttural wail that reverberated throughout the entire house and still gives me chills when I think about it. At that time, I had no idea about the amount of anguish pouring from her soul. She had lost her baby and even though we tried to comfort her, nothing we could say or do could ease her pain.
I also remember on the day of Angel’s funeral, Angie sat on the corner of her bed in her pajamas, crossed her arms and said, “I’m not going.”
My first thought when I saw that was compassion for my cousin. I prayed for God to give her the strength to get through this agonizing day.
My second thought was, “You have to go, she’s your baby.”
My Aunt Barbara hugged Angie and gave her all the love and support a mother could give at a time such as this. Mommy and I left the room to leave them alone, and forty-five minutes later, Angie emerged from her bedroom with her funeral clothes on.
I tell this story to say, twenty-eight years later I totally understand why my cousin said, “I’m not going.”
Because it’s the final goodbye.
Don’t tell me,” It’s good-bye for now”.
Don’t say “It’s not forever because you’ll see him again”.
To be honest, that’s NOT what a parent needs or wants to hear when they’ve lost their child. It doesn’t make us feel better.
That’s not what a parent thinks about when they see their own child, no matter the age, lying before them in a casket.
All you can think is, my child is gone.
Gone.
I will never hear John’s voice again. I will never see his beautiful smile. He won’t be around to irritate me with the little things he did or be able to stop by my house to sit with us and laugh for a little while.
He’s gone.
His funeral is today, and I don’t want to go either.
I don’t want to do this, but I know I have to go, so I muster the strength to get out of bed and take a shower. I stand in the shower and cry. Not the guttural wails like my cousins from many years ago, but quiet sobs as the warm water hits my face.
Showers of sobs.
“I wish my cousin Angie was here so I could talk to her right now” I thought, “she would understand my pain.”
Sadly, Angie passed away from breast cancer in 2004, seven years after she lost her sweet Angel.
As I exit my shower, I hear my daughter, Justice, taking her own in the main bathroom.
We picked her up yesterday evening so she could spend the night to make sure she wouldn’t oversleep. She’s also riding with us in the limousine to the church this morning, so she needed to be here when they arrive at 9:30.
Speaking of Justice, I haven’t said much about her because she’s been a little distant since her brother was murdered. John was three years older than Justice but they were extremely close. She always said, “We’re two peas in a pod.” She’s lost without John, and I can tell she doesn’t know exactly what to do.
My heart breaks for her because I don’t know what to do to help her through this. Of course, I give her plenty of hugs and tell her how much I love her. I tell her I’m here for her if she wants to talk but she’s twenty-five years old so I don’t want to smother her. I’m giving her the space she needs, and I pray for her every day. I pray God will see her through this extremely difficult time.
I begin putting on my clothes and receive a text from my sister-mom to see if I’m up and moving along which I tell her, I am.
Cindy’s husband and adult children arrived yesterday. They’re staying in a hotel close by so she went to the hotel last night and will ride to the funeral with them.
After I finished dressing, I headed downstairs. Ronnie was sitting at the kitchen table, dressed and ready but feeling just as distraught as I was. I have no appetite whatsoever, so I drink some orange juice and ask if he wants something for breakfast. He wasn’t hungry either.
“Thank God,” I thought to myself, “I don’t even know if I could cook anything right now.”
The clock on the stove says 9:01. The limo will be here in twenty-nine minutes, so I call upstairs to let Justice know how much time she has left.
By 9:25, we’re all sitting in the Living Room waiting for the limo to arrive. No one is saying a word. We’re all just staring off in space. The limo pulls up and we get in. The drive is very short as my church is only two miles away.
The silence continues.
“God, please help us.” I pray.
We’re greeted by warm smiles from the church hospitality team when we arrive and are led to the doors of the small chapel inside.
My legs are starting to shake, and I grab Ronnie’s arm.
“I can’t do this.” I say to him.
“Yes, you can” he replies and pulls me closer, “Lean on me. I’m right here with you.”
We’re fifteen minutes early so Mr. Caliman, who arrived with John’s body, asks if we want to go in the chapel now or if we want to wait. We told him now because Justice missed the viewing yesterday and she wants a few minutes alone with her brother.
As I watch her look at her big brother lying lifeless in that casket, I have to look away. It’s too much for this mother to take. When she’s done having her moment, we sit down. I grab her hand, then I put my arm around her, she lays her head on my shoulder and cries.
At 10am on the dot, the chapel doors open and people begin to stream in.
At the same time, the video tribute for John begins playing on the monitors above him and I hear that angelic voice of Michael Jackson singing;
“Like a comet
Blazing ‘cross the evening sky
Gone too soon
Like a rainbow
Fading in the twinkling of an eye
Gone too soon
Shiny and sparkly
And splendidly bright
Here one day
Gone one night”
I lost it and began sobbing at this point. I really needed to hear Michael’s voice right now. Sister Pam came through for me just like I knew she would.
“Thank you, Sis Pam,” I whispered, “thank you.”
Cindy and her family arrive shortly after the viewing started, as well as my granddaughter, Kammy, her mother, Tiffany, and Kammy’s maternal grandmother.
I watched my nephews Kevin and Zachary walk up to the casket, look at John for a few moments and quickly turn away. They were so close to John so I know it was hard for them to see their cousin this way.
As my granddaughter and her mother approached the casket, Tiffany paused and gave Kammy a loving kiss on her forehead, just the same way I kissed John’s a few moments earlier.
And, I wiped the tears from my eyes.
I quickly got up and stood with them in front of John’s casket as did Ronnie and Justice. Kammy needs as much love and support surrounding her as possible right now.
She had tears in her little eyes as she looked at John.
We heard her tiny voice say,
“I love you Daddy” and she placed her handwritten letter to him, with hearts drawn all over the envelope, inside the casket.
It was so heartbreaking.
The more people came to pay their respects to John and give their condolences, the harder it became.
Many who came to John’s funeral were mothers themselves and didn’t know what to say. All they could do was look at me with pain filled eyes followed by a warm embrace.
The video tribute continued to play to the music of “Gone Too Soon” over and over again. So many commented that this song is both beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time. It was an excellent choice for such a sad occasion, but it made them cry even harder.
At 10:55 am, Mr. Caliman came over to us and said the service would be starting soon so now is the time to say our final goodbye before the closing of the casket.
A knot formed in my throat and my heart began to race because I know this is the last time I will see my son’s face.
I slowly stood up and approached John’s casket with family surrounding me. The tears just wouldn’t stop as I looked down on my son for the last time. He’s lying in this casket in front of me and I still can’t believe we’re here.
I leaned down, kissed his forehead and said, “I love you John, and promise to get justice for you. I’ll watch over and love Kammy with all the love I have to give. I promise to find purpose in this pain and will forever say your name. Your death is not in vain.”
I also place a picture of me and John together in his casket.
I didn’t want him to be alone.
And with that, I buried my face into Ronnie’s shoulder and cried.
We sat back down, watched the casket lid slowly close and I whispered, “Goodbye John.”
The service began, the songs were sung and the eulogy given.
So much is a blur after the casket closed because all I could do was look at it and think about my son lying inside, however, I do remember, the message of Pastor Schultz eulogy to us; there isn’t a timetable on grief so don’t let anyone put one on yours.
After the benediction, the pallbearers were called to the front of the church to retrieve John’s casket, and “I’ll Fly Away” began to play.
As I walked behind the casket, I repeated what I told John before his casket closed.
“I’ll get justice for you John and will forever carry you in my heart.”
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