My husband, Rusty, stood on my opposite side with his hand on the small of my back, and our nineteen-year-old daughter, Lil, was to the left of him. Sadie and I attempted to hold in our laughter, like the nine-year-old girls we once had been in the chapel at private school instead of the forty-seven-year-old women we were. The misplaced amusement bubbled up from places forbidden and grabbed our guts and throats with the release of hilarity. I don’t know why laughter comes at moments it should be banned; I don’t know why it rains when we least need it or why love leaves when we most need it. But there we were: laughing at death.

“I bet,” I said as I stifled the rising and irresponsible laughter, “everyone thought they were being original and thoughtful, sending lilies to Lilly’s funeral.”

In her attempt to stop a choked chuckle, Sadie snorted, and it was then that we broke into full laughter over something that was only vaguely funny or maybe not funny at all. But just the way you find yourself wanting something worse when you know you can’t have it, we were unable to stop laughter in the one place it is inappropriate—the middle of a receiving line at Mother’s funeral.

Rusty glanced at me, which for a reason I still don’t understand made me laugh harder. He reached out to touch me, and I pulled away. My daughter looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, and I wondered if maybe I had. Sadie squeezed my hand, and we returned to normal—our mournful expressions intact.

Of course, nothing about Mother’s death was funny. It was sudden and awful and left our small family bereft and confused. I’ve discovered the finality of death in this: It remains unchanged and unmoved by loneliness, regret, or grief. My need for Mother, for some kind of redemption or reconciliation, came fresh with every thought and reminder of her absence. Missing her was the ache with which I woke and then fell into restless sleep knowing.