First Notes after my Mom's Death

My mother liked roses.  She liked chocolate too.  The dark stuff.  Milk chocolate, in her opinion was for children and invalids.
 I look at her face, on the coffin pillow, and realize it is as empty of humanity as a balloon is of air.It is as obvious as a leaf going brown, though less immediately obvious.  The jumble of emotions cascading through me is very odd.  Certainly not obvious.  I try