Amelia Rosa Collazos

She is survived by her daughters; Amelia (Anthony) and Rosa, her son, Martin (Tracey).

Grandchildren; Vanessa (Tarquin), Tony, Tim, Phil, Zak, Liam and Gavin.

Great-Grandchildren; Calise, Solena, Billie, Makenna, Ayla, Devon and Hanna

Her brother, Luis (Rosa) and many nieces and nephews.

As I lay in bed tonight, unable to sleep, I still can’t forget the sound of your final breath. It echoes in my heart, quiet but constant. I can still see your faint grin, your loving eyes, as you laid in bed watching the little hummingbird outside your window. You looked so peaceful, even as your body grew tired. That small bird seemed to hold your attention like a memory you didn’t want to let go of.

I remember those last few days so vividly. As I helped you get comfortable, you gently pulled me toward you and kissed me on the cheek. It was so unexpected, so soft—but in that one moment, I felt everything: your love, your gratitude, your goodbye. I will carry that kiss with me for the rest of my life. Your hands, still warm in mine, told me you were still there, still holding on, still loving me even as you prepared to let go.

I made a quiet promise to myself that I wouldn’t cry so much—that I’d be strong for you, like you always were for all of us. But the truth is, the grief of losing you, Mom, is still so incredibly real. I miss you in a million small ways: the sound of your slippers brushing down the hallway, the way your laugh filled a room, how you always knew exactly what to say when things felt too heavy.

The house is so quiet now without you. Your favorite blanket lies folded neatly on the couch, untouched. The kitchen feels empty without your humming. I catch myself turning to ask you something, only to remember you’re not there. And yet, somehow, I still feel you—your spirit, your love—in the warmth of the sun, in the gentle rustle of the wind, in that same hummingbird that still visits your window.

You weren’t just my mother. You were my anchor, my guide, my best friend. You taught me what love looks like—real, unconditional love. You showed me how to be patient, how to be kind, and how to hold on to grace even in the most painful moments. Everything good in me came from you.

I miss you more than words can say. But I will keep your memory alive—in the stories I share, in the way I live, and in every small act of love I pass forward in your name.

Thank you for everything, Mom. For your love, your strength, your warmth. I hope you’re resting peacefully now, free from pain, surrounded by light. I’ll keep talking to you in the quiet moments, and I’ll keep listening for you in the whispers of the wind.

You are gone from sight, but never from my heart!

A Memorial Mass will be celebrated for Amelia on Saturday, June 21, 2025, 11:00 AM at Holy Family Catholic Church, 209 E. Lomita Avenue, Glendale, CA 91205. Amelia will be laid to rest with her husband, Reynaldo, on Monday, June 23, 2025, 2:00 PM at San Fernando Mission Cemetery 11160 Stranwood Avenue, Mission Hills, CA 91345.