Illustration: Christine Smith

"She's gone."   The text flashed across my iPhone's screen at 2:42 a.m. Eastern Time. I had already been awake for some time, a combination of jet lag and the ongoing conversation leading up to that message. I was on a trip to the East Coast for work – and my sister was at the emergency room with my mother.   It's now been two weeks, give or take, since my mom passed away. It's still fresh in my mind, of course. How could it not, as my sister and I have spent our days working on the arrangements. She never wanted a funeral and did not leave a will, but there is still plenty to do.   Her name was Sherry, "spelled like the wine." Born in Arizona in 1941, her family moved to the Los Angeles suburbs in the 1950s. There, while in high school, she met the man who w

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