My Grandmother's favorite performer of all time was Tom Jones.

She, known to everyone as June Care, but to her grandchildren only as Mema, grew up in a small steel town outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. To her, the glitz, glam, and fake tan of Tom Jones was something she aspired to have.

Mema married Da, my Grandfather, when she was just 18. He was heading off to Korea and they tied the knot right before he shipped out. When he returned, he went to law school and moved her and the beginnings of their family to Lexington, Kentucky.

My grandmother lived the good live of a wife of a Southern lawyer. She had four children, lots of parties, and even more drinks and cigarettes. When she was in her early 30's, she got the chance to go to Las Vegas and wear her only fur coat to see Tom Jones live, a story that was told every chance she got.

Mema was the family member I most identified with. She was loud and very opinionated. She smoked like a chimney and didn't care what you or anyone else had to say about it. All of her grandchildren, and she had nine, were treated equally. She would measure out the money that she spent on gifts down to the penny. When I opened a present from Mema and Da it was not uncommon to find the random pack of hair ties or couple of jawbreakers; she was just making sure we were all even.

That said, Mema and I always had a special bond. I would often get in trouble with my aunts and uncles because I tried to have adult conversations with them when I was a little kid; I was a 20-year-old stuck in a 10-year-old's body. When they scolded me and I felt rejected, Mema would have adult talks with me. She was open, honest, and never sugar coated anything.

Once, we had a discussion about death. She told me that when she died, she wanted us to have a small family get together and spread her ashes at the local cemetery. She didn't want any fuss and certainly no minister, she hated the church.

When I first got the news that my Grandmother had passed, it was just after Thanksgiving last year. I was still in New York City and I had two finals left to go in fall semester. I didn't cry, I just was too separated from the emotions being alone in the city, and I focused my energy on my finals.

I met my family in Kentucky for the funeral and found out, not surprisingly, my mother was planning everything. My mother is a businesswoman and everything she does feels like a marketing pitch or sales problem, this funeral was no exception.

My mother and I have often had arguments about the church. She started believing and attending in full force when I was in sixth grade and my sister was four. I think it was belated post-partum depression. My life went from no opinion about God to a very evangelical view of God and the life one is supposed to lead to receive his grace.

My mother announced to me that I was going to give a eulogy, representing the 'grandchildren', the next day at the funeral service. I spent the night writing a vividly depictive speech. I connected her good qualities to the items in her kitchen, because I had spent most of my time there as a child.

At the service, my mother was in full boss mode with a veil of grief. She made sure that the flowers from the important relatives were set around the room in just the right places and that everyone looked up to par for the arriving public.

She made all the grandchildren take a picture in front of the funeral home, which I still don't understand. My grandmother's funeral wasn't a memory I wanted photographed.

Being the appointed representative of the grandchildren, I was made to stand and greet the guests next to my mother, aunts, uncle and grandfather. I was so busy, that I didn't even notice my mother usher the minister to the front of the room to discuss the service details.

I was seated in front with the other eulogy representatives, one for the children and one for her brothers and sisters, on a small raised stage. The service began and the minister, who looked just like everyone else in his black garb, stood up and opened his bible. At that moment, I suddenly became 10 again, sitting in Mema's kitchen while she explained to me the meaning of death and her perfect funeral.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Why was there a minister? Of course, it was because of my mother. She was so selfish. Didn't she know that not everyone believed in God or all her church stuff? I was so angry that I didn't event hear the minister's 'sermon'. I was thrown back into the real world when he announced that I would be speaking next.

I walked up to the podium and began to deliver my speech. I looked straight down at my paper because I couldn't bear to look at my mother. I started to cry so hard that my body shook. It was because I was finally allowing myself to grieve, but also because of the intense anger I felt for my mom. I got through the entire eulogy and looked up at the crowd of gathered relatives and friends, apparently I had moved others to tears too. I looked at my mother and hoped that she understood everything I wanted to say to her about how she had ruined my grandmother's funeral and how she would have to live with that through my intense eye contact.

What I saw in her eyes was not the look of corporate power or control that she normally has, but one of extreme grief for the loss of her mother and pride for being my, the girl who delivered the moving eulogy's, mother. My anger softened, but I continued to stare at her.

Before the representative of the children spoke, the minister thought it necessary to say a pray. I watched my mothers face. She was crying and wiping her eyes. When the prayer began she turned her face upward and through the minimal movements in the lines in her face, I saw her grief turn to hope.

I am not exactly sure what she was she was hoping for, maybe that her mother had made it to the kingdom of heaven or that she was happy.

I realized that my mother had hired the minister because she needed him to help her deal with the death of her mother. While I still wanted to respect the wishes of my grandmother, I knew that she was gone and wasn't experiencing this funeral, but my mother was.

The funeral was for the living people present in the group of mourners. It was to help them understand the death of the Care family matriarch.

As my uncle began to eulogize, I realized that my grandmother would have been okay with this minister, because more important than the perfect funeral was the safety and happiness of her family.

I stood up and walked off the stage and sat next to my mother. I grabbed her hand and held it tight while we both cried. This time when I looked into her eyes all I saw was love for me and for my Mema.