I had enjoyed twelve years of being totally irresponsible. twelve years of being a completely harmless and helpless twelve-year-old. But now, as I stare at my mother lying in the small, confined box lined and stuffed with white satin, I have never felt more irresponsible and helpless.

I spend the most time with her here. Her cold, pale hands under my tan, warm hands helps me to come to terms with the truth. She is absent from our lives, and I will never see her alive again. I’ll only notice in the beautiful paintings of lilies back at home, or perhaps when my younger sister ripens into adulthood, I’ll see the finest person the world has ever seen. Someone who is beyond compare. I can’t seem to leave my beautiful mother. I touch her hair, soft and pure like gold, I gaze at her closed, perfect eyes, and smile at her hands, loosely holding a bundle of lilies.

There’s suddenly a hand on my shoulder. I look up and my dad, with crimson eyes, starts to pull me away. I know - it’s time to leave. I kiss her cheek as a single, lone tear glides down my cheek to my chin.

As we sit listening to the speakers talk about how prodigious my mother was, I listen to one thought over and over in my own head: Why did she have to breathe her last breath on the most unlucky birthday of mine?