I’m writing my mother’s eulogy today. Three years ago, my mother almost died. I wrote one then. As I read it now, it is still relevant. I wrote about her love of art, modern art. Her passion for justice. And how she demanded that ketchup be put in a bowl rather than have the bottle on the table, even with all five of her grandchildren running around the kitchen.
I wrote that I was proud of her. Proud of who she wanted to be; proud of who she tried to be.
She’s sleeping now. No longer waking up.
Walter and Allan took Ben out to get a new suit coat. The jacket from the wedding he wore fits Zachary now. Zachary’s fits Jake. Jeanine took Jake and Zachary to get new shoes. Ben’s still fit. I will go through their drawers to find the single, white button down shirts they have and iron them. Walter will pick out new ties for them.
Jeanine is arranging her schedule for the week. The trip to San Francisco has been cancelled.
Jake just snuck into my office, in his ninja costume, silently- as silently as a six year old can- and yelled boo at me from under my desk. Zachary just showed me his new sneakers and shoes- very grown up, he said. I’m going to cook dinner. Chicken Parmesan, pasta, and Caesar salad.
My black suit is clean. The eulogy almost done.
All that’s left is the wait.