My head pounds. My heart aches. My eyes burn with tears.

I have returned from the funeral of a 26-year-old man, Jonathan, the son of a longtime friend. He died in a bicycle accident, returning home from a fundraising event he helped organize for one of the many causes he supported.

It is the second such funeral I have attended in less than a year. Last September, the 26-year-old son of another good friend died while playing volleyball, taken down by an unknown heart condition.

In the comfort of my own home, with Mother's Day cards and flowers to greet me upon my return from the Mother's Day-weekend funeral, I carry with me images of the family's unimaginable pain.

In my mind's eye, I see Jonathan's mother, my friend, clutching the beautiful wooden box that holds her son's ashes, her eyes closed, her face lifted heavenward, as if searching for comfort from beyond.

Standing nearby is Jonathan's younger brother, the remaining son, struggling to assimilate the strange, unfolding reality. Does he wonder how he will go forward now that his big brother is no longer there to show him the way?

I also see the bereaved father bending toward a small square hole in the earth, sprinkling dirt over his son's ashes. The father is big and strong, having served in both the Gulf and Iraq wars. Many years ago, he, too, stood by the graveside of his own brother, that death the result of another unfortunate accident. At that moment, as he bends toward his son's ashes, the father is as broken as any man can be.

Thinking of my friend and her family, I feel hopelessly inadequate to offer them comfort. How does one respond to a family in the face of such pain?

Death, especially when it occurs out of sync with the natural progression of life, leaves us feeling helpless and uncertain, as we struggle to find words of comfort for the bereaved. We send cards and flowers and offer our thoughts and prayers.

And then we slip away, longing to return to a place where death's pain doesn't intrude.

Many years ago, my sister taught me a valuable life lesson, one that I have tried to carry with me into these difficult and uncomfortable times. My sister had given birth to a beautiful baby boy, Michael, who died from an untreatable heart defect when he was only six months old.

Then, too, people sent cards and flowers and offered their sympathy. But when the expressions of condolence ceased, as they naturally do, an empty awkwardness followed.

People, in an effort to shield my sister from more pain, skirted the subject of Michael's short life. In the grocery store or out for an evening with friends, my sister said many avoided the mention of his name, when, in fact, it was Michael she most wanted them to remember. Their acknowledgment, she said, would have helped alleviate the perpetual pain in her heart.

Nothing said or done can take away the sorrow Jonathan's family is feeling at his untimely death, but knowing that others share their sorrow may help ease the pain.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.