It was one of those heavy mornings where my body refused to leave the bed, knowing that a massive sorrow awaited me just around the corner, ready to swallow my whole existence. Yet, the feeling of a day like this is still very fresh in my mind. I couldn't help but recall the morning of my mother’s funeral just a year ago—sleepless, restless, numb. Then, my dad’s funeral six months ago, where everything happened in just five hours. By evening, my brain couldn’t process that he was dead and buried. The memories weighed heavily, but I managed to leave the bed, surrendering myself to the agony that awaited. Allowed myself to have a very long shower where tears weren’t noticed, hidden beneath the water.

Appetite wasn’t very promising; therefore, my concern was whether I should wear black for Ulrike’s funeral. Googled “how to get dressed for funerals in Germany” and “what flowers to send.” Black-colored dresses and white tulips were the suggested answers. I was comfortable with the black, but knowing how unique Ulrike was, I thought she might want something more colorful. Orange flowers always reminded me of her. Her bag, her scarf, and her apartment. Her funeral theme was “Celebrating Instead of Mourning.” But I was too sad to act brave. I wore the saddest clothes in my closet and headed to the nearest flower shop.

My German sucks, and so does this Turkish man’s English in the flower shop. It took us a good five minutes to understand what he meant about the cover paper for the flowers he was preparing for the funeral. He was saying something in German, but he refused to use Google Translate. Crazy flower man! Luckily, a girl entered the shop and helped with the translation. She explained that the paper should be removed when I arrived at the funeral. Unbelievable! Who would’ve thought? The funeral was in a forest cemetery, over an hour away by train. I had never been to a funeral in a forest or one outside of Kosovo. Back home, people are buried on the same day or, at most, the next. I always wondered how people could mourn and process grief within 24 hours.

As the train arrived, I could feel myself getting closer to saying my final goodbye to Ulrike. It was Friday, and everyone around me seemed energetic. Two girls sitting next to me were loud, and the people standing around my seat were even louder. Didn’t they know we were going to bury an incredible person today? A person whom everyone I met admired deeply. A person who had opened her heart to me, letting me take as much space as I needed. Recalled a phone call I had with Thomas after she passed away. I had asked, “What made her be so brave in front of this terrible battle?” Thomas, devastated but still able to answer with the most purposeful words said to me, said, “She wasn’t afraid of death; she was afraid of a meaningless life!” Tears started to fall down on my face.

I pulled out my phone, put in my headphones, and played Nick Cave’s “Distant Sky.” All these mixed feelings were swimming all around my body, and my body was too small for the pain. I missed my dad. A massive sadness embraced me. I longed for the proud look he would give me after each hug we shared. I never properly mourned his loss. I wasn’t brave enough. I couldn’t grieve for the loss of my main source of love. Not that strong. I yearned to hear him say once more, “Malisa is the heart of our home, bringing harmony whenever she is here.” What I wouldn’t give Dad to bring that harmony back to that cold, empty house, I thought.

The train pulled into the station where I was supposed to get off, after a long ride filled with a heavy load of emotions. Skipped the bus and decided to take a long walk towards the forest. While walking, I took a deep breath and recalled the warmth I felt every single time each of them would hug me. Was trying to detect and bring back the smell they had and the feeling of it. I had to be in the moment. Grounding technique, as we the psychologists call it! Arrived at the cemetery and hugged each of her friends. Seeing her parents—heartbroken, experiencing death from the hardest side—ripped my heart apart. Thomas, in his wrinkled suit and with tearful eyes, explains enough of his last few weeks. Holding the vase with her ashes, he led us toward the long stretch of forest.

Ulrike had wanted to be buried as a tree. She lived differently; she would now grow again as such. The tears of the man playing the cello with the saddest notes was the only one who seemed to express the grief we all carried. When the music ended, Thomas spoke, “Now we can all put our flowers with the ashes and say our last goodbye.” My bouquet was the biggest. I couldn't help but blame the Turkish man for that. "Thank you for buying me that cinnamon roll. Now go there and meet my mom and dad," were my goodbye words to her. As they buried her ashes and planted the tree, a very slow wind begin to touch the leaves of these very tall trees around us. Her soul moved from a tree to another. Making peaceful echoes. Holding every hand one last time. Embracing strength. Moving from a heart to another. Creating essence. Smoothly flew in the direction of the infinite. The route to the sky. Leaving behind the last drops of Love. Of Meaning. Of Mothering!