Chapter 34 | Heather #2
Her words carried a particular wisdom that came from someone who'd learned to see past surface presentations to essential truths beneath.
Mom had never cared about elaborate ceremonies or expensive displays.
Her values had been rooted in authenticity, in making sure that every gesture carried genuine meaning rather than empty tradition.
"Tell me about the cards," Susie requested gently, nodding toward the small white rectangles that I'd been avoiding because they required a commitment to finality I wasn't ready to make. "What are they for?"
I swallowed hard, feeling a lump in my throat that made speaking difficult.
"It’s a funeral tradition," I managed, reaching for one card with fingers that still trembled despite her steadying presence.
"You write the deceased's name on each card, then place them around the urn during the ceremony.
It's supposed to help her spirit recognize the love that's calling her home. "
The explanation sounded clinical when spoken aloud, stripped of the emotional burden that made this particular tradition feel both necessary and devastating.
How could something as simple as writing her name capture the complexity of who she'd been, the magnitude of what she'd meant to everyone whose life she'd touched?
“That’s beautiful,” she said.
Each letter felt like a farewell and celebration together, marking the end of her physical presence while honoring the love that would outlast mortality.
Susie organized the other materials while I worked on the cards. She tied lavender bundles with purple ribbon, her fingers working with surprising skill to create uniform shapes that would burn evenly during the ceremony.
"She used to make sachets like these," Susie observed, holding up one of the completed bundles to examine her work. "Remember? She'd put them in the laundry baskets so our clothes would smell nice even when we couldn't afford fabric softener."
The memory hit me with unexpected force... Mom's hands working by lamplight after the children were asleep, creating small luxuries from whatever materials she could gather or grow.
"She always found ways to make things beautiful," I said, my voice thick with emotion that threatened to overwhelm the careful composure I'd been maintaining. "Even when we had nothing, she could create something that felt like abundance."
Susie nodded, and her smile carried an understanding that needed no verbal explanation.
She'd witnessed those small acts of transformation firsthand, had been the recipient of love that transcended material limitations.
Her usual teenage attitude had disappeared, replaced by the mature compassion that trauma sometimes forced young people to develop early.
"The stones look good," she said, arranging the collection of smooth river rocks that would form a protective circle around Mom's urn during the ceremony. "The kids did a great job picking them."
The kitchen had grown still around us, late afternoon sunlight slanting through windows in ways that painted our funeral preparations in gold and shadow.
Upstairs somewhere, I could hear the lost girls laughing at something Emma had said, their voices carrying an easy joy that would have made Mom smile with satisfaction.
She'd spent her entire adult life creating spaces where healing could happen, where traumatized children could rediscover their capacity for happiness.
"She'd be proud of what you've built here," Susie said softly, as if reading my thoughts. "All these kids having an actual family, being safe and loved and fed properly. This is what she always wanted for everyone."
Her words carried validation I hadn't realized I needed, confirmation that the choices I'd made since losing her were consistent with the values she'd tried to instill.
The mansion full of children, the pack who'd embraced our entire chaotic family, the abundance that ensured no one would ever again go hungry or cold.
.. it was everything she'd dreamed of being able to provide but had never had the resources to achieve.
"The ceremony should be tomorrow," I decided, setting down my pen after completing the last card. "In the garden behind the house, where she can see all the children she helped save."
Susie nodded with solemn agreement, understanding that grief had its own timeline that couldn't be rushed or delayed beyond what the heart could bear. "I'll help set everything up," she promised. "Make sure everything is perfect for her."
Looking at the completed funeral preparations spread across our kitchen table—lavender bundles tied with purple ribbon, smooth river stones arranged in protective circles, handwritten cards that captured a lifetime of love—I felt something shift in my chest. Not the disappearance of grief, but its transformation into something that could coexist with gratitude and hope.
Mom would have her proper funeral, surrounded by the family she'd helped create, honored according to traditions that celebrated her life rather than merely mourning her death.
It was time to let her go with all the love and ceremony she deserved.