I rashly promised to give my mother’s eulogy.
When my father died I felt compelled to speak. I know most close family members choose not to do so, but I saw no other choice. I assumed it would be the same way with my mother.
It is not.
This time there are no words.
I can’t explain the difference. I don’t separate my feelings, one over the other, but I had words when my father died. Now I do not.
When my father died a part of him seemed to keep going. As a child my parents identities were so tied up in each other that as long as one was with me, I had a piece of them both. Now I have neither.
I find myself overwhelmed with the prospect of summing up not just one life but many; the life I have led until now, of the life they built together and the legacy she built herself.
I am a firm believer in the power of words. They can nurture and they can heal. Right now they do neither.
The woman who gave me words deserves so much… yet I have so little to give.
I want to call my mother and have her make my problem go away.
I don’t want to have to be the grown up yet but my mother’s words are no more… only mine remain.