The limousine is waiting. I squeeze my husband’s hand for strength — it’s time. Dressed in an array of black pants, suits, dresses and tops, our family gathers to go outside when my sister exclaims, “Where’s Mom?” I scan our group. She’s right: no sign of Mom.

“Mom, it’s time to go,” I yell. Silence. Louder, “Mom!” Nothing.

Room by room I look for her, as if trying to locate a misplaced cellphone. Finally, in the master bath, I eye her sitting on the edge of her over-sized tub. Her wrinkled hand is softly stroking a CD player. Her eyes are closed, and her head is tilted upward. Her Mona Lisa smile makes me think she’s remembering the warmth of my father’s embrace. Softly, she joins Barbra, “Memories, all alone in the moonlight, I can dream of the old days, life was beautiful then.”

I wait for the end of the duet before jostling her into reality. She and my father were married for 63 years. Now, she must go to the funeral home, bend over the wooden box, kiss lifeless lips and grab our hands as he is lowered into the ground. Then, according to our custom, she will shovel the first spade of dirt onto his coffin and say goodbye.

My parents met when my mother was a 14-year-old waitress in an upstate New York diner. If there is such a thing as story-book love, theirs was it. From the early years when they stood shoulder-to-shoulder digging worms to sell to fisherman for bait, to later years, when Mom insisted Dad accompany her on her mahjong cruise, they were inseparable.

I smile thinking of one of the last phone calls with Dad. He was laughing so hard he had trouble getting the words out. “We went to that little Italian place and ordered a pizza. I told the waiter to cut it into 10 slices instead of eight — because we were really hungry.” Mom is giggling in the background. Together, they laughed effortlessly. Alone, there’s no more funny.

Months later, I have learned that time does not always heal. Things do not always get better. One can wither away from a broken heart.

Mom was always borderline zaftig. Now, I’d be surprised if she weighed more than 100 pounds. Old pleasures like a sesame bagel covered with cream cheese and a fresh slice of sturgeon, the Miami Heat, “The Good Wife” and mahjong are simply old pleasures. We reach out to pull her above the swirling waters to no avail. Her grief is stronger than her grip.

Yet, we still try. “Mom, I’ve heard about a new movie that’s really good.” She flips her hand backward, shakes her head side to side, “Laura, today’s just not a good day.” Neither was yesterday when she rejected my brother’s dinner invitation. Nor tomorrow — she has already canceled breakfast with my sister.

Like the head of a tall man obstructing the movie screen, the loss of my father, coupled with her declining health, blocks visions of happiness. There is no strength nor motivation to change seats or peek around for a glimpse of hope.

We cling to the smallest signs of life. Like Fridays, when she gets her hair done — early Jacqueline Kennedy style. Freshly coifed, we can sometimes cajole her to go to her clubhouse for dinner. She’ll wear a Chico’s print jacket over a black Lycra shell, accented with a splashy Swarovski necklace. Maybe vanity is the last to go.

We’ve consulted those who are supposed to know how to make people happy. They’ve only succeeded in keeping her mildly miserable. We’ve hired aides, sent over a voice teacher, given pep talks, empathy talks, angry talks. Sometimes, we can no longer talk.

And, when I wake up at 2 a.m., I fantasize saying, “Mom, it’s OK —you do not have to linger. Go, go to daddy.” And, then — how dare I? My pain from watching is no match for her pain from being.

I am impotent. I cannot bring her joy. I cannot give her purpose. I cannot pry her from her from her “Memories, of the way we were.”

Laura Black (lauracelesteblack@gmail.com) is an attorney and business woman. She is the author of "Big Butts, Fat Thighs, and Other Secrets to Success."