Big Fractal Tangle: funeral morning

A year ago this morning, I wrote my mom's eulogy just hours before her funeral. I'd had a whole week to do it, but was understandably overwhelmed by her recent death, to say nothing of the gargantuan and dubious task of summing up such a woman's life in a few paragraphs. I'd hoped to work on it the night before, but instead we spent our time shopping for new clothes because the airline lost our luggage.

That morning, I woke with my guts clenched in knots, feeling a pressure I'll never forget. I had a few hours to write something worthy of my mom, something that would help us all heal, something worth remembering. My wife still asleep, I slipped out and crossed the street. I'd hoped to write at a nearby diner, but it wasn't open yet. I went for an unplanned drive, which became the start of the eulogy.

This morning at six, I drove alone in the dark along Prairie Avenue. From one end to the other and back, I finally found it: the house where my mother grew up, the place where she, Bernadine, Donald, and their mother Margaret lived as a family with James.

It's been almost twenty years since I've seen it. I parked right in front and stepped outside to get a good look. This is where my mom learned the lessons that made her into the loving and courageous woman we all knew.

Writing these words at the diner, drinking coffee, eating eggs, chatting with the friendly waitress, the exact right thing happened: the words arrived. Many writers know of that mystic moment when words start flowing out on their own, when the job becomes a matter of merely taking dictation. I'd experienced this before, but never did it feel as automatic as that morning. From somewhere came words like this:

...Though my father was an impressive man, she was never fooled by the show. She saw his imperfections clearly and loved him fiercely just the same. Her ability to see beneath the surface of people, to see their hidden humanity, the fragile source of their love, is another of her priceless gifts to us all. My father remained reverent of her warmth and love from that day forward.

I don't remember thinking this. I remember the coffee and the waitress and the drive in the dark, but I don't remember writing the words. When it came time to return to the hotel room, I still hadn't finished the eulogy. With words still running through my head, I ironed my shirt and tied my tie, which given the day was tougher than usual. We drove to the church and set things up, then I sat down again with pen and paper. I was still writing when people started arriving.

Then came the truly scary part. To that point, I hadn't really thought about reading it to everybody. I snuck out to a hidden hallway and paced back and forth, reading it to myself over and over, trying to find its rhythm and my courage. Again I found the strength I needed. Reading at the pulpit, I managed to give voice to the words without choking on my fear and grief.

...Rosemary lives on in all of us, in our memories, in our hearts, in our spirits. She will always live so long as we love each other as she taught us how.

People seemed to like the eulogy. As each of them came up to me afterwards, expressing their thanks, it felt like they were thanking me for something I didn't really do. That day and long after, if you had asked me what I wrote or read, I wouldn't know.

Alone this morning, aware of the day, I read the eulogy and cried longer and harder than any time this year. Words can be such a sweet release. So odd that though I wrote the words I'd be the last to really hear them.