My mother died just before Thanksgiving two years ago. This is what I wrote when I went home to pick up her ashes: eulogy.
Since her death, I’ve been reeling around the world in shock and pain, pretending that I am fine because that is what she would prefer, unable to look directly at the loss. Without her, I no longer know when daylight savings has happened. I never receive government warnings about destinations Americans should avoid. I have nobody to explain the strange things I find in the family photographs.
She always knew, even when I was thousands of miles away, if I was sick. Without her I forget to go to the doctor, or do routine tumor checks, or take the medicine that keeps me alive.
Above everything else, I have no dependable source of lacerating anger and wit to make even terrible experiences look trivial. I’ve been crying a lot, which she would hate. Growing up, I was never allowed to cry, no matter what happened.
My mother was an extraordinary, powerful, strange person. I miss her more than I could possibly convey.
Today I’m thankful for old friends and young folk.
Guests are arriving!
This week we’re finishing a tile job abandoned 90 years ago, with correct historical materials.
The goal is to make it look the way the original owners intended. Restoration, not renovation.