The days leading up to the viewing and funeral of our sweet Laura were a blur of tears, laughter, and mall shopping for something—anything—purple. Purple… how we all love purple. It wasn’t even a question. It wasn’t, “Should we wear purple?” It was, “Wear purple for the funeral.” Period. Captain Chaos (come on, y’all know who I’m talking about) had proclaimed it Purple Day. (Disclaimer…I don’t know if she truly declared it, but we come from a line of purple lovers and Laura was one of ’em, naturally it would be the color of choice)
And honestly, I can’t help but believe that our devotion to this color came straight from Grandma Lizzie. That woman didn’t just like purple—she claimed it. She wore it, lived in it, radiated it. If there was a purple version of something, she loved it. If there wasn’t, she probably dreamed of it. So of course, when we were standing in Macy’s, eyes swollen, hearts cracked open, trying to figure out how to dress for the worst day of our lives, purple felt like the only thing that made sense. However, it was January and purple ANYTHING was nearly non-existent. Macy’s, Boscov’s, JC Penney, Walmart, etc etc… It was an Amazon hope – hope it’s the right color, hope it fit, hope it was delivered in time.
It was almost funny—almost—how grief and fashion collided. One minute we were crying in the car, the next we were holding up blouses and sweaters to the fluorescent lights like we were judging gem tones. “Too lavender.” “Too plum.” “Too ‘ugly.” “Too ‘I’m going to a job interview.’” We were ridiculous. And yet, it mattered. It mattered so much. Because this wasn’t just about clothes. It was about showing up for Laura in a way that felt like us and in her favorite color.
And in those moments, I kept thinking about Grandma Lizzie—how she would’ve marched into that store with her clunky purse and even clunkier black stack heel shoes, thigh high panty hose tied just below the knee and a dress the length of two, maybe three inches below that, her big opinions, and her absolute certainty that purple was the color of strength, royalty, and women who refused to be forgotten. She would’ve been proud of us. She would’ve said, “Wear the purple. All of you.”
And we did. We hunted for the perfect shades, the ones that felt like love and memory and defiance all at once. And somehow, in between the crying and the laughing and the “Does this make me look like a grape?” moments, we found a strange kind of comfort.
Because purple wasn’t just a color. It was a connection—between us, between generations, between the women who raised us and the woman we were about to say goodbye to. OK, I may be overthinking this, but it sure did go hand in hand there, right?
I wore purple on both days. Of course I did. I had found this blouse that I swore was adorable—on the hanger, under the store lights, in the fantasy world where I am a person who has her life together. But the second I put it on at home (like 10 minutes before we needed to leave for the viewing), I realized it was… fine. OK it was definitely NOT fine. But by then I was already committed, already in the emotional spin cycle, and there was no detour. No time for a wardrobe existential crisis. Purple it was, enter grey cardigan over said blouse.
And then there were the grey “slacks”—because my mother will haunt me if I call them anything else. I’m not usually a slacks person. I’m a leggings-and-hope kind of person. But these? These sucked everything in while still allowing me to breathe. That is my new metric for pants: Can I button without having to lay on the bed and squirm like a fish outta water, can I zipper without jumping up and down, and can I inhale without seeing stars. These passed the test.
For day two, I found a sweater that felt soft enough to count as emotional support cloth, paired with black slacks that were, technically, capris. But when you’re five‑nothing, the fashion industry’s definitions of length simply do not apply. Capri, ankle, full-length—on me, it’s all the same. I topped it off with black Mary Jane heels and immediately began praying. Oh, how I prayed. Not for strength, not for peace, not for comfort. No. I prayed that I would not trip, stumble, or face‑plant in front of an entire church full of people.
Because, naturally, the Chaos Coordinator—Donna—had assigned us our Official Funerary Jobs. Mine? Bring the gifts up to the altar. So now, on top of crying for days, on top of trying to hold myself together with sadistic humor and caffeine, I was expected to walk, carry something breakable, and remember to breathe so I didn’t pass out. My cousins do not understand the stress. The stress is real. (Side note, Donna was the messenger of the assignments, but we customarily blame her for just about everything anyway, and why should this be any different…we know our roles in this family!)
Thank God there were two of us presenting Gifts and walking. I immediately grabbed the item least likely to shatter into a million pieces if my hands betrayed me. Mission accomplished. I made it up, tried to make it back, except Donna reached out and touched me as in that cousin‑to‑cousin, “I know how much this sucks” touch. And that was it. I lost my shit. My vision went full watercolor—just warped color and tears and the sound of my own breathing trying to keep up. By the time I reached my pew, I was ready to sink like a deflated balloon.
And then there were my boys. My sons. Pallbearers. I joked with them beforehand, “Guys, don’t drop my cousin.” In my head, they would stand there while the funeral director did the heavy lifting—position the casket on the little gurney‑roller‑thing and they’d just wheel her in like a smooth airport luggage situation. So imagine my shock when I saw them actually carrying her. From the street. Up the stairs. Into the church. Hands on the handles, muscles engaged, faces serious. I was stunned. And, honestly, a little proud. They didn’t drop her. They didn’t wobble. They didn’t even look terrified. (OK to be honest, TJ DID look like he was going to throw up the entire time).
They carried her with love. With steadiness. With the kind of quiet strength you don’t realize your kids have until life forces them to show it.
And in that moment—blouse doubts, capri‑slacks, Mary Jane heels, tears, chaos, all of it—I felt something settle in my chest. A strange mix of grief and pride and disbelief that this was our life now. That this was how we were saying goodbye. They also carried her back down to the hearse. And that’s when it happened—TJ lost it the second he let go of the handle. There was no pulling himself together, no quick wipe of the eyes, no pretending he had something in them. He just stood there, openly crying, shoulders shaking, his whole heart spilling out onto the sidewalk. His brother was right beside him, doing the same while trying to comfort him, which is one of those impossible emotional physics problems: how do you hold someone up when you’re collapsing too.
And then—Aunt Dee. God bless Aunt Dee. She swooped in like the patron saint of “Oh honey, come here,” wrapped her arms around her Godson, and let out that long, drawn‑out, “Ooooh TJJJJJJJJJ, I’m sorry,” that only she can deliver. It didn’t fix anything, but it softened the edges for a moment. Sometimes that’s all anyone can do.
But wait, there’s more. Because of course there is. There’s a repast. There is always a repast. Why not gather everyone who adored my cousin and her family and feed them some good food in a really nice place while we’re all emotionally drained. What could possibly go wrong?
Well… my uncle walking into the ladies’ room, for one. That’ll do it. And then there were the wildly inappropriate conversation – that would be the other. It’s usually questionable when TJ says something and lets out a little chuckle first. “Mah, when we were carrying Laura,” He began. I was immediately worried where this was going but since they didn’t drop her, how bad could it be? “We went up the stairs and I felt something slide. And I realized it was LAURA! I was hoping she wasn’t getting banged around or hurt.” He had such way about trying to be serious sometimes yet, he continued, “Then we went down the stairs and the same thing happened!” I let him know that I really didn’t think she was getting hurt but had anything else happened she would probably come back to haunt him. He is officially traumatized, still.
In other words, it was perfect.
Because these were all the things Laura loved. The noise. The stories. The food. The laughter that starts in the belly and takes over the whole body. The kind of laughter she had—the unmistakable one that made everyone else join in even if they didn’t know what was funny.
All of it was there in that room. Every bit of her spirit reflected back in the people she loved most. It was like she was woven into the air itself—into the clinking of glasses, the hugs, the jokes, the tears that turned into laughter and back into tears again.
She would’ve loved it. She would’ve been right in the middle of it, stirring the pot, instigating the chaos, laughing until she snorted.
And in that space, with all those people, it felt like she still was.
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