Me, my mother Geneva ‘Mac’ Owens, and my father Sebastian Owens

When I cried at my mother’s funeral two years ago, I had no idea where the tears came from. It was the first time I had shed a tear since my father died in 1975, I’m pretty sure. Incidentally, they snuck up on me then, too. I was just 17, a month before returning to the east coast to finish my last hellish year of prep school.

They snuck up on me like a thief, and I was somewhat shell shocked and embarrassed as I stood there at the Montview Presbyterian church podium sharing memories of my mother and lifelong best friend. I had been doing so well, I thought, and I had been calm. My composure was immaculate, perhaps in subconscious honor of both my parents who were nothing if not masters of composure and bearing. But then, in the almost exact middle of my prepared remarks, I broke from the script to haltingly announce to those gathered that I didn’t think I was going to…

And then, like a paper doll squeezed a bit too tight inside a child’s fist, I crumpled. The words evaporated, and I cried so hard I shook. Two very good family friends who had also delivered remarks at what was a very intimate service and were seated nearby came up slowly to put their arms around me. They didn’t try to stop the pain, nor did they try to steer me to sit down. They simply became the strength I needed until mine returned.

The room was silent, but I could also sense its warmth. And yet I still felt somewhat off balance, more so than I…