Essay by Lauren DePino, CNN
(CNN) — On the morning of my mom’s funeral, I arrived at the church before everyone else. Soon, people would begin trickling in. But first, I needed a moment alone with my mom. I didn’t know if I had it in me to sing for her that day, and I was nearly at zero hour.
A blur of days before, on the night of the summer solstice — the shortest night of the year and the longest night of my life — a phone call jarred me awake with news that stunned me. My mom had coded, and paramedics were trying to revive her. As I stumbled to the car, I cried out to her, knowing she would never answer my cry for her again. Still, l prayed that I was wrong.
Even though I had moved across the country a decade ago, I talked to her every day and saw her multiple times a year for winter visits in Florida, the holidays in my hometown of Philadelphia, and summer visits at the Jersey Shore.
Now, in the Roman Catholic church of both of our childhoods, in the second pew where my mom always sat, I asked for her guidance. How could I not sing for her at the singular occasion that honored her life? The truth was, I was terrified that my voice would crack and I’d ruin her service. At the time, I hadn’t yet processed my most crushing fear — that I’d be forced to live without her.
I pictured her large, dark eyes fixed on me during the hundreds of times I’d sung here for funerals and other gatherings. I saw her reddish-brown curls, her mouth mirroring the lyrics. The stained-glass rainbows falling on her arms. If my voice could really reach her and she could really reach me back, this was the spot for it.
The dirge-crooning daughter
This church was where I’d started singing at funerals 33 years ago, when I was 10. For more than two decades, I was the dirge-crooning daughter of a lively, outspoken mother who hated funerals and just about anything to do with them, especially those wretched wallet-size remembrance cards.
But boy, did she love the music. And she always showed up to hear me sing.
When I sang a set of comfort songs — whether it was at a banquet hall, in a grassy yard or in this very church, she’d often sneak in the back, wearing black, making her way close to my musical post.
Most recently, I would sing and play for her at her independent living complex, seated at the grand piano in the community room.
From the front row, she would shout, “‘Be Not Afraid’!” as if she were requesting “Free Bird.” With her eyes closed, she conducted to her own rhythm.
Would my mother tell me what to do?
I sat in mom’s seat, as stumped as ever, unable to sense any heavenly messages from her. I thought of the earthly guidance I’d received from Meghan Riordan Jarvis, a trauma-informed grief expert, and Mary-Frances O’Connor, a neuroscientist and clinical professor of psychology at the University of Arizona.
While I was a professional funeral singer, Jarvis pointed out that I