The traffic was backed up all the way from the freeway exit ramp. At first I thought there had been an accident. And then, as we slowly crept up the road, I saw the blinkers come on. One after another waiting patiently for the left turn.

We were all going to the same place.

The parking lot was full. And so was the church. I thought it was standing room only until an usher pointed me to the choir loft. It was empty except for a black and red walker.

Just like Mama’s.

I didn’t want to sit there.

And then I noticed an empty seat, one in from the aisle. I asked if it was taken and the woman sitting next to it said no. So I sat down beside her. Looked around. There were two overhead screens with text and graphics. Up front, where the altar would be, was a bank of candles. Hundreds of them. Three hundred and sixty-three to be exact.

The program was a single piece of paper folded in half. Inside were the names. Three hundred and sixty-three. Divided into months. I found Edith Lobb under April. The month Mama was born, and, ninety-five years eleven months one week and six days later, the month she died.

The choir loft began filling up. I caught the eye of the woman sitting next to me. We began to talk. It wasn’t the usual passing the time of day small talk between strangers. This was a slow, hesitant dance of conversation. We were strangers to one another and yet we knew we had a profound experience in common–the death of a loved one within the past year.

As did everyone else in the hall.

Hello. How you doin’? was too trite and meaningless under the circumstances.

When. Who. How long has it been. Do you need a tissue was more like it.

I didn’t want to be there and yet, when the invitation came in the mail I knew I had to go. Because Hospice had been there for us when we most needed it. And this event, a reading of the names of all those under hospice care who died within the last year–this event was a way for me to honor the people of Hospice as much as it was to honor my mother.

I recognized some of the speakers, the readers of the names. The social worker who had come to the house. One of the nurses. The spiritual advisor who had been as concerned about me as he had been about Mama.

The music was exquisite. A haunting flute solo. Later some beautiful vocals accompanied by acoustic guitar.

And finally a benediction by the minister. Statement. Response. I don’t recall his exact words but our response was, “We release you.” Over and over. “We release you.” I thought of balloons. Of doves. Of souls tied down by human grief being released, flying free.

In the end, while we were waiting to receive our candles, my neighbor turned to me. “Does it ever get any easier,” she asked. Her loss was recent and double that of mine, two family members within weeks of one another. Within weeks of this evening. Mourning’s early days when life is raw and everything hurts.

I assured her that despite what others had told her, it does get better. That eventually she’d have more good days than bad. And one day she would wake up and realize she was okay. That life goes on and it was good.

And then I told her how Mama’s death had created a rebirth in me. After years of caregiving, especially the intense care required at the end, I was now free to blossom with my own life. My words struck a chord, I could see it in her eyes as she leaned forward, soaking up what I had to say. For the first time that night I saw her smile, a flicker of hope lighting up her face as she nodded her head. Yes, yes.

YES! When the grief clears life is still there. And it is good.