The mourners formed a receiving line that stretched down Belaire Drive in Roseland and, one by one, paid their respects. They did it from the safety of their SUVs and sedans in a slow-moving processional, rolling down their windows to offer polite condolences.

“We love you so much!” one woman called out as her car drove away.

Carol Ann Rolli stood at the end of her driveway, taking breaks from waving to the well wishers to wipe away her tears. She had no idea what to expect when Paula Luongo, her feisty 79-year-old mother, died from the coronavirus two days earlier.

She was told that only a handful of her friends and family would be allowed at the memorial service, so her friends and neighbors did the best they could. They organized this rolling memorial service, giving Rolli whatever comfort they could without violating the social distancing guidelines that have shut down life as we know it.

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This is what it’s like for the family that loses a loved one during this pandemic. No church services. No warm embraces. No trays of food at the repast. There are painful goodbyes, more than we want to imagine, coming in the next few weeks.

And they will come without the usual comforts of our ceremonies and rituals, and for many, without that sense of closure they need.

“We couldn’t kiss her. We couldn’t touch her. We couldn’t even shake the priest’s hand when he arrived to say a prayer,” Rolli said. Nine mourners were allowed in the funeral home. One, her brother Michael, was allowed in the mausoleum when their mother was put to rest.

Paula Luongo was an active grandmother with no pre-existing health issues, one reluctant to give up her normal routines when the coronavirus concerns got serious last month. She first felt sick on March 16, and when her fever spiked at a 103.5 degrees five days later, she was rushed to Morristown Medical Center.

She died after “eight horrible, horrible days,” on March 29, with her family telling her it was okay to let go over the phone.

“The last time I saw her, it was through the back of the ambulance window,” Rolli said as she choked back a sob. “That was it.”

The next day, she called Richard Codey.

The former governor, who owns a pair of funeral homes, made all the arrangements over the phone, meeting Rolli for the first time at her house to pick up a white-and-pink dress for Luongo to wear in the casket.

Under normal circumstances, he will offer comfort and support in his office. Now, Codey has to explain the ground rules. No more than 10 people will be allowed inside Codey & Jones Funeral Home in Caldwell, with the chairs spaced six-feet apart.

“It’s a surreal experience,” Codey said.

None of his part-time employees want to work right now, which Codey understands, so he has to handle much of the work with Garrett Jones, his partner, and Erik Schneider, their primary embalmer who runs his own funeral trade service.

I ask all three of the men: Are you afraid of catching the virus?

“(Hell) yeah!” the 73-year-old Codey said with a laugh. “I hung up on my son the other day at the funeral home after he told me to get out of there. Then he sent me a text that said, ‘Go home!’ But this is the business.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” said Jones, 54, who has twice been hospitalized for asthma. “This gives me a purpose to get up in the morning.”

They take every possible precaution. They wear Tyvek suits, gloves and masks to the nursing homes or hospitals from their “stockpile” of personal protective equipment when they pick up bodies. They spent $4,000 on a portable ultraviolet decontamination system to clean the hearses they drive and the rooms where they work.

“The thing is, you don’t always know if the person has it or not,” said Schneider, a 30-year-old Morristown resident. “We’re on the front lines just like the doctors and nurses are. You just want to help people, in good times and bad.”

In many ways, their services are even more vital.

In some cases, people haven’t seen their loved ones in two weeks. The memorial service is their last chance. One woman gently brushed her father’s eyebrows in the coffin. Jones knew he should stop her. But how could he?

Rolli wanted to kiss her mother goodbye but followed the rules. After the priest said a prayer, the nine relatives allowed at the memorial service tried to fill the time with stories about Luongo, a woman with a big heart and no filter. But often, too often, the room was silent.

“It’s very lonely,” Rolli said. “I feel like I’m in a boat alone and a boat with millions of people, and I’m in between somewhere.”

The small funeral procession had a police escort to the cemetery. When the mourners arrived at Gate of Heaven, only the hearse was allowed through the iron gates and to the mausoleum. Only her brother was there when it was unloaded.

“We at least got to see mom’s casket come out of the hearse,” Rolli said.

She was standing with the rest of her family along the side of the road, behind a wrought iron gate, when her mother was taken to her final resting place.

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Steve Politi may be reached at spoliti@njadvancemedia.com. Follow him on Twitter @StevePoliti. Find NJ.com on Facebook.