Josh was the second of her three children, the risk-taker and joker who loved motorcycles and scuba diving and dismantling appliances just so he could reassemble them.
When he enlisted in the Army in 1998 at age 20, she didn't like it. Nine years later, as he began his second tour in Iraq, she still didn't like the idea of her son in the military. She opposed the war in Iraq, and Josh knew it.
But what could she do?
He was a grown man, a sergeant who loved his job as a bomb specialist. He felt he was saving lives. How could she argue with that?
On July 24, Josh had just finished defusing two improvised explosive devices in Baquba, northeast of Baghdad, when a third bomb detonated. Sara had been advised that the casket shouldn't be opened.
She slipped on the Hawaiian shirt. It felt right somehow.
Josh wouldn't have wanted her to wear something formal for his homecoming. That wasn't his style.
She walked slowly out the door - her knees ached from several operations - and slid into the front seat of a silver Mercedes driven by an Army chaplain.
She was ready to go.
By the time Sara arrived at the airport on Aug. 8, the honor guard had been practicing on the tarmac for almost two hours, preparing to carry the casket of 29-year-old Army Staff Sgt. Joshua P. Mattero from the plane to a hearse.
Sara's former daughter-in-law, Analyn, had joined her in the Mercedes for the drive from Chula Vista.
Josh and Analyn married young, and Analyn couldn't handle Josh's long deployments. They divorced in 2005 after six years of marriage and no children but remained good friends.
Both women were crying when they stepped out of the car.
The chaplain, Lt. Col. Michael Pomorski, placed his hand on Sara's back and steered her into the lounge of the Jimsair Aviation terminal at Lindbergh Field. By now she felt comfortable with the 54-year-old officer, who had been part of the group that told her about Josh's death.
A man waiting for his plane glanced up at the crying woman and her uniformed escort, then quickly lowered his eyes to his newspaper.
Joining them was Sgt. 1st Class David O'Brien, who had driven down from Fort Irwin, northeast of Barstow, Calif., the day before. O'Brien, 40, had served two tours in Iraq, but this was his first casualty detail. He was determined to make sure things went smoothly for the Matteros.
Josh's half brother, Scott, 36, arrived. Josh's sister, Melissa, 22, was at work.
The family followed O'Brien onto the runway's apron. Sara's former husband and Josh's father, Frank Mattero, would be arriving in a few days from his home in Virginia, but Josh's aunt, Marriane Malakie, was there.
As they waited, a breeze broke the heat for a moment. Sara began crying harder, her sobs muffled by the roar of private jets taxiing down the runway.
An airport worker quietly placed a metal chair behind her. She sat down and focused on the runway until the plane came around the corner and stopped in front of her.
When the door swung open, she focused immediately on the edge of the casket, which she could see covered with an American flag. She barely noticed Sgt. 1st Class Peter Pascarelli, who climbed out of the plane and marched to her side.
Pascarelli, 34, is a bomb specialist. He trained Josh, and the two became friends. It seemed only right to Pascarelli that he should volunteer to escort Josh home.
The two pilots assembled a crane that would lower the casket to the ground. The honor guard approached, eyes forward, trained to move quickly in case the crane malfunctioned.
Everything went smoothly, though, and the chaplain walked forward with Sara. While he prayed, she pressed her hand against the coffin.
Her son wasn't in there, she told herself. The bomb had blown the life out of him.
Pascarelli saluted the casket, his face wet with tears. Had he trained Josh enough? Was there something else he could have done to prepare him? Had the soldier been ready?
Yes, he had been ready, Pascarelli told himself. Something can always go wrong.
The honor guard carried the casket to the hearse. Three California Highway Patrol officers climbed on their motorcycles and cleared a path for the trip to Glen Abbey Mortuary in San Diego. The casket would remain there until Josh's burial on Aug. 14.
Josh's father, a retired Navy officer who works at the Pentagon, had wanted his son buried at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia. But Sara chose Glen Abbey Memorial Park, just four miles from her home.
Now that he was back in California, she would never let Josh leave her again.
SORTING MEMORIES
Sara strained to see the expiration date on a box of Pillsbury cake mix. "Can you read this one?" she said, handing the box to Analyn.
The funeral was in four days, and Analyn was helping Sara clean out part of the garage.
It was filled with reminders of Josh: tattered board games, his track uniform, a Cub Scout book, a rifle he had asked Sara to safeguard while he was in Iraq.
Sara, 57, enjoys her job as a special education teacher at Rosebank Elementary School in Chula Vista, but she has always treasured her summers. She had begun this break with two goals: organize the garage pantry and bake for Josh. She'd been so busy during the school year that she hadn't had time to send him any packages.
Josh loved her oatmeal raisin cookies. She would make a batch of dough and store it in the refrigerator. When she wasn't around, he would slice off pieces from the back and eat it raw. She wouldn't realize what he'd done until the roll was almost gone.
Sara stopped cleaning and rubbed her forehead. She had spent the previous day vomiting because of a migraine.
Analyn found a jar of Marshmallow Fluff.
"He would eat this stuff by the spoonful," she said with a laugh.
The phone rang.
It's the mortuary, Scott yelled from the kitchen. They can get a bagpipe player, but it will cost $200.
"Don't worry about it," Sara said. It was worth it.
The women finished with the pantry and began sorting photos for the slide show the funeral home was preparing for the visitation Monday night.
Piles of snapshots covered the kitchen table.
There was Josh blowing bubbles. Josh running to second base in his Little League uniform. Josh making his sister and cousins watch as he pounded nails into a piece of wood. Josh at the prom with a girl much taller than he was. Josh in uniform standing in front of a wrecked sport utility vehicle in Kosovo with a huge smile on his face.
Sara stared at the photo of her son on his fourth birthday, sitting in front of a pink cake with white frosting.
She had always let him choose what kind of cake he wanted.
"He liked rainbow," she said. "He liked the colors."
FUNERAL ATTIRE
The funeral was approaching, and Sara wasn't ready. She, Scott and Analyn all needed something to wear.
"I'm getting the first black dress that fits," Analyn said as the three entered a nearby shopping mall.
No luck.
They headed to another.
At Men's Wearhouse, Sara asked the salesman to outfit Scott for a funeral. In a few days they would be burying her other son, she said. He was a soldier killed in Iraq.
Sara started crying. The store manager helped her sit down and brought her a bottle of water while Scott tried on a suit. It looked good, and Sara headed to the cash register.
"This is one of those moments," Scott told Analyn later.
"Like you shouldn't be buying something so nice for something so bad?" she asked.
"Yes, exactly like that," he said.
Analyn found a black dress, and Sara insisted on paying for it.
"It's something Josh would have done," Scott said.
It was getting late, and Sara still hadn't found anything for herself. She wanted a suit even though she didn't much like them. Josh was going to be buried in the evening, and it might be cold sitting outside. She had planned the burial for 7 p.m. Josh loved sunsets.
They piled into Sara's car and headed for another store. It was 8:30 p.m. and the stores would be closing soon.
Within 10 minutes, they found three suits for Sara to try. She emerged in the outfit she would wear to bury her son. Beneath the jacket, Josh's dog tags pressed against her chest.
EULOGIES AND TRIBUTES
Sara was already crying when she locked arms with Maj. Gen. Timothy McHale as they climbed the steps to First United Methodist Church of Chula Vista on Tuesday night.
Behind her, a group of veterans held American flags and created a pathway for the honor guard carrying Josh's coffin.
This was the fifth funeral McHale had volunteered to attend on behalf of the Army. Before each one, he would contact the soldier's friends and colleagues so he could say something personal at the service.
Sara's daughter Melissa arrived with her boyfriend, a former Marine dressed in uniform.
Pascarelli, Josh's friend and fellow bomb specialist, stood watch at the back of the church while people filed in. A woman wearing a polo shirt and sun visor excused herself as she squeezed into the family's pew and placed her hand on Sara's shoulder.
"I also lost a son in Iraq," said Armida Martinez, whose son Michael died on June 28 when his Humvee was attacked.
The two mothers embraced, and Martinez edged out. Frank Mattero and his family arrived, and the services began.
The pastor spoke of sacrifice. The general spoke of courage. Analyn spoke of friendship and love. Josh's father spoke of gratitude for second chances and his son's humor, humility, and leadership. Sara said nothing. She stared straight ahead and wept until the service ended.
MEDALS AND FLAGS
The roar of motorcycles signaled that the hearse was approaching the cemetery, and the bagpiper began playing. A large American flag was flying at half-staff over the corner where Josh would be buried alongside several other veterans.
The chaplain escorted Sara to the grave site, where two rows of chairs were set up.
Sara sat on the right with Melissa, Scott and Analyn. Frank and his family sat on the left.
McHale presented a set of Josh's medals to Sara and another set to Frank: the Bronze Star for bravery, the Combat Action Badge for engaging the enemy, the Purple Heart for his ultimate sacrifice.
The honor guard fired three volleys. Two soldiers lifted the flag from Josh's casket, folded it and passed it to McHale.
"I present this flag to you on behalf of a grateful nation and the U.S. Army in appreciation for your son's honorable and faithful service," he said as he gave it to Sara.
The soldiers held a second folded flag over the casket and repeated the ceremony for Josh's father.
The sun began to set as the groundskeepers prepared to lower Josh's casket into the ground. Sara pulled on her suit jacket and stiffened herself against the chill.
Daryl Peveto contributed to this story.
