Smith, Nicola Rosemary Irene

Smith, Nicola Rosemary Irene
18 Dec
2017

Nicola Rosemary Irene Smith, age 38, better known as “Nee”, of Simmons Land, Rendezvous Ridge, Christ Church - employee of RM General Services Limited, Daughter of Gloria Smith and John Boyce, Mother of Nakalia and Nakyla Smith, Fianceé of Rosevelt Clarke, Sister of Kelly Ann and Symphia Smith, Kemar, Shanice, Dominique, Dewayne and Shakira Waithe, Aunt of Nikita, Gabriella, Shakayla, Shania, Kadeem, Nyasha, Ciara, Jahcara and Tajarri, Niece of Beverley, Sonia, Judy, Josilyn, Olivet, David, Gloria, Maria, Una, Monica and Rodney, Cousin of Wendy, Sherry-Ann, Stacy, Tara, Samantha, Renaldo, Keisha, Mario, Pamela, Kemar, Kemal, Donna and Shellie, Relative of the Smith, Boyce, Bynoe and Dorant families, Friend of Davie.

The funeral of Nicola Rosemary Irene Smith leaves the Belmont Funeral Home, Belmont Road, St. Michael on Tuesday, 19th, December, 2017 at 11:45 a.m. for the First Baptist Church, where relatives and friends are asked to meet at 1:00 p.m. for the service. The funeral will then proceed to Westbury Cemetery for the interment.

Floral arrangements may be sent to the Belmont Funeral Home no later than 11:15 a.m. on Tuesday.

Viewing of the body will take place at the Belmont Funeral Home on from 3:30 p.m. until 5:30 p.m. on Monday.

  • Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
    Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.   Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightening they Do not go gentle into that good night.   Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.   Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.   Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.   And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.