The Eulogy

His body looked fake, plastic like. The complexion was manufactured as if a toy store was planning on packaging him as their next hot product. His cheeks were bloated and full, lips ripe for kissing, plush and swollen. The suit he was wearing was hand picked from his closet, the only part of him I recognized as he lay there in that casket.
I don’t remember much from that day except how he looked. I could only get so close to the coffin, maybe an inch or so, before I had to turn away. I wanted to poke him to see if he would move. I thought that if I whispered into his ear, he would stand up and do his impression of Bill Cosby and we would all laugh. But I didn’t whisper a thing. I don’t remember saying anything at all actually.
I don’t remember crying that day either. I was nine years old for God’s sake. What did I know about death? Nothing. I didn’t understand it. Eighteen years later and I still don’t understand it. But as much as I tried to avoid it, I knew that I would eventually have to face it again. Not for my own sake, but for the sake of someone I love more than anything else in this world.
It is because of her death that I am sitting here in seat A1, waiting for the rest of the passengers to board flight 892 to Buffalo. The seat tray in front of me is down and on it rests my notebook, which holds a few scribbles here and a few scribbles there of mashed thoughts, like a pile of lumpy mashed potatoes dripping wet with gravy. Mush. My thoughts have been reduced to mush.
Organizing thoughts into lyrical phrases has always been my gift. But I cannot seem to form one simple constructive sentence at this moment. I twist my pen anxiously in and out of my fingers. Ink has somehow found its way to my palm and haphazardly across one of my knuckles. How it got there is beyond me, but every time I pick up a writing utensil it finds a way to leave a skid mark behind.
Hmmm. It seems I have even managed to write on my sleeve. And yes, I’m wearing white.
“Baking soda.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A little baking soda will get that right out.”
“Oh, thanks.”
The woman next to me flashes a quick smile as if she has just done me a favor and adjusts her seat belt. It struggles to clamp shut until she loosens the strap and is able to finally release the breath she sucked in five minutes ago. Her glue colored hair is tied back with the aid of a neon pink rubber band and she is wearing a light pink sweatshirt with a tiny slot machine on the front and the words, “cha-ching” spread out across it.
“Are you going to Buffalo for business or pleasure?”
A perfectly warranted question, I think. But how am I to answer that?
“Neither,” I decide is safe enough.
“Oh.”
“Well, it’s a family thing really.”
“I saw your notebook and I wondered if you were flying on a business trip.”
“No. I’m not the business type,” I say, eyeing my outfit. I am wearing a not-so-white t-shirt with a single blue strip across the chest and a pair of worn jeans.
“Student?”
I get that a lot too. My baby face suggests that I am at the tender age of a misguided college student determined to make sense of the world.
“I graduated. I’m a writer.”
“Oh wow. Anything I might have read?”
Not hardly. Unless of course you happen to glance at Outsource, the gay weekly of a small, unfamiliar town in which my column appears each Thursday.
“Probably not.”
“Oh.” She withdraws a romance novel from her oversized purse. “I like to read a lot.”
I observe the cover of the tattered book in her hand. It is bent and the top corner is folded back. The pages have started to turn that faded yellow color and carry a hint of mustiness.
“This is one of my favorites,” she winks.
I nod, catching a quick glance at the title, which almost makes my jaw drop.
“Among The Pussy Willows?”
“Oh, it’s so darling. Very romantic.”
I nod again. Fluff. That’s what my grandma would have called it, a fluff novel. One of those books that you read just to read, not for any intellectual stimulation of any kind but just for entertainment value.
I pick up my pad as the woman I have dubbed “the gambler” eases back into her seat and props the book upon her midsection for easy reading.
I write the word “fluff” out in big capital letters and then begin coloring in each one, one letter at a time. The last book I bought for my grandmother before she died was a volume of Shakespeare. She had grown tired of the fluff and wanted to awaken her brain a little bit, revisit the great literary works of all time. She wasted no time on romance novels.
Once the stewardess begins her carefully memorized speech over the loudspeaker, I put up the tray in front of me and set my notebook in my lap. Maybe I will get a bit of inspiration when we are actually in flight, I hope.
The stewardess goes on quickly, almost too quickly, fumbling over her words.
I look around the cabin of the plane. Only one person is apparently paying attention and he is the five-year-old across the isle. As the stewardess mentions the seatbelt, he reaches down and attempts to unhook his before his mother interferes.
I pick up my notebook once again and write down “five-year-old” in block lettering, off to the right of the page, above the “fluff” doodle. I chew carelessly on the end of my pen, leaving bite marks to roll over later with my tongue; one of the few habits from my childhood that I was unable to break.
“Mommy, what are those?”
I look over at the little boy. He is pointing to the oxygen mask, which the stewardess is holding. He laughs as she pulls back on the rubber band strap and demonstrates how to put it on.
I sigh. Oxygen mask. That is one thing that my grandmother never had to worry about. When she passed away, she did it while dreaming. The night was clear, the weather mild, and she had cracked a window open just a pinch to let in a soft morning breeze. At least this is how I picture it.
My mother told me that grandma went to bed just like any other night but in the morning she didn’t wake up. She died warm and safe, tucked in under the covers on the night of April 14, just as spring began sweeping its way across the northeast.
I wonder why so many people seem to die during spring. Someone once suggested to me that it is God’s way of “spring cleaning,” which makes sense. As the new comes in, the old fades out.
I look at my notebook. Why aren’t I writing this down? Maybe I need to just let my thoughts wander a bit. Besides, it’s not like I can write about my theory of spring-cleaning in the eulogy. Damn. The eulogy.
I didn’t want to write it. I wanted to say no. But my father was near tears when he had asked me.
“It only makes sense,” he said. “You are the writer. She would want you to write it. We want you to write it.”
So here I am. Wondering what the hell I am going to write. I’ve never written a eulogy before. And he wants me to say something inspiring, something that will stir the mourners right out of their pews and into a circle formed of linked palms and voices. Do I have it in me to write something like that?
I reach down between my feet to where my backpack sits. In it I have the necessities of flight: a pack of gum, a CD player, my wallet, my planner, and two granola bars in case hunger strikes because the in-flight pack of peanuts never satisfies. I sift around until I find the item that I am looking for, a manila folder full of handwritten letters that I had accumulated over the years from writing back and forth with Grandma.
I am hoping to receive some sort of jolt while reading them that will propel my pen to strike the pages of my notebook with such force, that the words become etched through to the other side.
The letters aren’t organized in any fashion, much like my life. They are scattered about, highlighting certain things in my grandma’s life as well as mine. She sometimes wrote of memories, reminiscing about her past and revealing the depths of her, which she carried close to her heart. I am thankful that she was able to share those hidden caverns with me.
I think everybody has a secret. I held a secret or two from my parents – anything from swiping a candy bar from the local store to drinking the night away at a supposed “girl’s only” sleepover. These aren’t really the secrets that I am talking about though. There are deeper ones, the kinds that seep into your soul and stay there for a good portion of your life, maybe even for all of your life.
But I’ve found that those kinds of secrets only eat away at the very core of you and that the only way to free yourself from them is to let them out, to tell your secret no matter the emotional repercussions. I’ve seen what secrets can do to a human being. I’ve seen what one particular secret did to me.
As the plane skirts down the runway, I take a breath. The takeoff is the hardest part for me. It’s no secret that I do not like flying. Once the plane hits mid air, I’m fine, soaring above the clouds and feeling so close to the top of the sky that I can reach out and touch heaven.
The plane turns a wide corner and the pilot announces that we are up next. I can picture him fixing his racing glove straps and carefully placing his racing goggles over his head. He eagerly pumps the gas, and the tail pipe under the left wing gleams in the afternoon sun.
The light turns green and we are off. I flop back into my seat and grip the handles. The gambler smiles and shrugs excitedly. The takeoff must be her favorite part. We pick up momentum as the checkered flag waves, more gas, more speed. I close my eyes. I can feel the color draining from my cheeks and dripping down to my toes. The plane tilts and trembles. My ears clog and all I can hear is the engine blaring as it sucks in the wind and spits it out behind.
Up and up we climb and then slowly we begin to even out. The momentum slows, my toes touch the floor and my grip loosens. I open one eye at a time, just to be safe. The gambler resumes her reading. I let out a breath that I suddenly realize I have been holding for the entire takeoff.
Whew.
I roll my shoulders back then pick up my notebook and the folder of letters. I am good until we have to land. Landing is another challenge for me. But I figure I can worry about that later.
Where was I? Oh yeah, secrets.
I unfold a letter dated three years ago in which my grandma was responding to my coming out to her. She was the first family member I told. Now that was my secret.
I think I chose to tell her first because of her uncanny ability to love unconditionally. I was hoping that she wouldn’t see me any differently, that I would still be her little granddaughter no matter what.
I read her loving words over one by one and I am immediately filled with such a mixture of gratitude and longing. Gratitude for her acceptance, longing to hear those written words out loud, maybe just once more.
I unfold another letter. This one is dated just a year ago. She wrote about her time in an orphanage, during the Depression since her mother was too poor to take care of her. It helped build her character, she wrote. It cemented her faith in lofty dreams, knowing that some day she’d walk out of that cold place with drafty windows and concrete floors to return to her mother’s arms. She never blamed her mother nor held it against her. It was what needed to be done, she wrote; everything happens for a reason.
I catch the gambler spying at me out of the corner of my eye. I turn and smile at her politely.
“Boyfriend?” she asks, eyeing the letters.
I stifle a laugh. Not quite.
“Grandmother,” I say proudly.
“Oh! How sweet.”
I can tell that she’s a bit disappointed that they aren’t letters from a magical prince wooing me with words soaked in romance from the ink of his pen. No wonder she’s reading romantic fluff.
“Yeah. We used to write a lot to each other since I moved away.” I realize I said the words “used to.”
“Is that who you are flying home to see?”
“Sort of,” I say. I guess there will be an open casket, so in a way I am flying home to see her.
The gambler gives a sideways glance but simply brushes it aside as she sets her book down on her lap.
“You know, I have a grandchild.”
“Really,” I say without much enthusiasm.
“Yes. And she is the most beautiful child I have ever laid eyes on. She’s perfect in every which way!”
“Perfect?”
“She’s two and she says so many words already.”
“Don’t you think that’s quite a high pedestal to put someone on, especially being so young?” I was still stuck on the perfect thing.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what if she grows up knowing you think she’s perfect and then she makes some mistakes, because let’s face it – we all make mistakes, and then she feels like she let you down because of those mistakes and that maybe she isn’t so perfect in your eyes anymore.”
For the first time since we took off, the gambler is speechless.
I turn back to my letters, wishing the filter, which screens the words before they shoot out of my mouth, was turned on.
“You’ll see,” the gambler says after a moment.
“See what?” I ask, relieved to see the smile back on her pudgy face.
“When you have grandchildren my dear, you will understand. All grandchildren are perfect in a grandmother’s eyes.”
I nod. I feel the wrinkled letters in my hand and I suddenly understand why my grandma loved me so easily. To her I was entirely perfect, no matter what.
The gambler goes back to reading her book but not before I catch her settling smugly back into her seat.
A lesson from the gambler, I muse. Are all grandmothers wise? Is there a certain reference book you receive once you become a grandmother that holds the right answers to all questions, no matter how obscure?
I’m not sure my grandma needed such a book in the first place. Her wisdom came from some place within, at least that’s what I believe.
Back to secrets.
Grandma had a secret too. I think that because I told her mine she felt the need to tell me hers. Or maybe it was just eating her insides into holes that she needed to tell it before it ate her up completely.
I unfold the letter in which the secret lies. I always loved your grandfather, she wrote, more than I’ve ever loved anyone else in this world. But your grandfather wasn’t the affectionate kind. I know he loved me, he often said that he did, but he never truly showed me. I envy your father and mother sometimes because when I see them holding hands or exchanging a hug, I feel as though I missed out on those special moments.
Your grandfather and I had twin beds. I used to tell my friends that he would crawl from his bed into mine in the middle of the night just to snuggle. But those weren’t true tales; they were just hopeful dreams. Sadly, your grandfather preferred to stay in his own bed many nights.
One summer, I met a man named Charles on a breezy afternoon at the park. I sat there, on the wooden bench with my sweater draped over my shoulders, watching the kids on the playground. He came over and sat next to me. At first I ignored him because I was enjoying my time alone, reflecting on my life. But his smooth baritone caught my attention, and before I knew it we were strolling through the park discussing our childhood dreams. Your grandfather never took the time to ask me my dreams. I guess that’s why Charles was so appealing.
Now dear, don’t get the wrong idea. I never slept around. I wasn’t a hussy. Charles and I met once a week at the park to take a walk and to talk. He was a sincere gentleman with a pocket full of charm and a kind expression that sent my knees knockin’. I came to find out that Charles was a widower. He was such a sweet man. I think I even fell in love with him. Do you think it’s possible to love more than one person at once? I do.
Anyway, Charles died shortly after. I don’t think his heart ever fully healed from the loss of his wife. He helped me rediscover so many wonderful things about myself and in a way he helped save my marriage. Your grandfather never knew about Charles. Neither does your mother and father. I’d like to keep this special secret between us.
“Do you think you could love more than one person at one time? Like really be in love?” I realize I just asked this question out loud to the gambler.
She stares at her book for a moment, almost scanning the pages for a bit of information or something to reference. Upon finding neither, she sighs.
“I suppose so. If your heart is big enough.”
My grandma’s heart was definitely big enough. When she was only sixteen she worked and went to school so that she could help support her mother and her five-year-old sister.
When she married my grandfather, she told him that her sister and her mother were part of the package.
I write “love” on my pad of paper. I study the page, it is plastered with scribbles of different words and other doodles, lines that zigzag across the page and little swirls. All that is missing is an “I heart somebody” and I could be looking at the cover of my Math folder from high school. I write out the word “school” next.
My grandma was a brilliant woman. She finished high school and then married my grandfather. From there, she raised a family of three boys. And at the age of forty-four, despite my grandfather’s protests, she went back to college to get her degree.
I open a letter that she wrote to me just before she passed on. She was revisiting the days when she would work during the day, go to school at night and come home to be a wife and mother all at the same time. My lungs fill with a breath of inspiration.
When your grandfather told me that I he wouldn’t let me go back to school, she wrote, I told him that he didn’t have a choice. He could hate it as much as he wanted, or he could learn to accept it. Either way, I was going to go. He learned to like it. And once I graduated and secured a teaching job, he wasn’t complaining anymore when the extra money came rolling in. Ha!
I smile, hearing her laughter ring throughout my ears, rising above the noise of the engine.
The plane suddenly shakes violently and I immediately take hold of the seat handles. A voice comes over the loud speaker saying something about turbulence and how we should be through it in just a few moments. The plane drifts up quick and then down just as fast.
The pad and pen drop from my lap and land on the floor. Letters scatter and I reach with my left hand to keep them from falling too.
The gambler sets her book down calmly, in a space between her side and the seat. Then she reaches her with her hand and places it over mine. She pats it lightly, as if to say, “Don’t worry dear.”
I swallow hard. Then the plane settles and flies level again. My grip loosens once more and I bend over to pick up my pad and pen. I feel slightly embarrassed.
“Thanks,” I tell the gambler. “I’m not much of a flier.”
“Not a problem,” she says. Then after a moment, she leans in as if she is about to tell me a secret of her own. “She’s watching over you, you know.”
“Who,” I ask.
“Your grandmother.”
“How did you know she’s...”
The gambler points to my pad of paper. I see that I’ve also written “Eulogy for Grandma” down the side of the page. A dead giveaway, I laugh. No pun intended.
“I know she is,” I say without looking up from the scribble. I gather up the letters and put them back into the manila folder. Then I scan the yellow-lined pad once more.
Why do I need to write a eulogy, I ask myself. If I know that she is watching over me, doesn’t she already know how I feel? Can’t she already see what a gift she has been to my life? How she has taught me lessons on life, love, education, bravery, devotion and laughter? Do I really need to craft some succinct paragraph filled with fancy words to remind people of how wonderful she was?
“So,” the gambler poses, “have you figured out what you are going to write then?”
“I don’t think I’m going to write anything.”
“Why is that?”
“I just don’t think that I need to write out some long and detailed explanation of why we are all going to miss her,” I say confidently. “We already know why. All we have to do is look within ourselves. Her impact can be felt there. We don’t have to be reminded with words...we can remember with our hearts.”
“You should write that down,” the gambler winks.
I laugh. “Maybe I will,” I say.
With the eulogy still unwritten, I eagerly pull out my CD player and one of my granola bars. After I slide on the headphones, I relax in my chair and try to steal a glance out of the window, past the clouds, to distract myself. But the clouds only remind me of heaven, which then makes me wonder if grandma is there.
“Do you believe in heaven?” I ask the gambler after I remove my headphones.
“Sure.”
“So you really think it exists then?”
“Why not? You’ve got to have something to believe, don’t you?”
I shrug. I never really asked myself if I believed in heaven before. Maybe I was always afraid of what I might say.
“I guess so,” I mumble.
“You’re wondering if you Grandmother is there?”
“It’s hard not to, when I’m surrounded by clouds.”
“I’m sure she’s there honey.”
The gambler’s words, though sincere, don’t suffice. I feel as though my thoughts are a mess and I still haven’t written the eulogy.
Maybe I’ll just tell my father that I can’t write it because there’s too much to write and not enough words in the English language. Or maybe I’ll say that I’ve got a bad case of writer’s block, or maybe I’ll just tell him the truth. I’m afraid to write it, because writing it makes it real, writing it makes it final. Writing the damn eulogy means that she is officially gone.
I start to feel my eyes gathering their tears, waiting for a signal to turn the buckets on their sides and let the water come trickling down my cheeks.
I glance at my watch. I’m pressed for time now. We’ll be landing shortly and then I’ll have a minute or two to shower before I have to put on a face for the wake. Tomorrow is the funeral. If I don’t write the eulogy now, it’s never going to get written.
I start to chew on my bottom lip. I do this whenever I get panicked. I feel the cabin pressure closing in around my head, filling my ears with empty space.
I spot the folder of letters protruding out from my bag on the floor, tucked not-so-neatly under the seat in front of me. I pull them out again. Letters. Grandma’s letters. I always felt closest to her when I was writing her or reading one of her letters. I suddenly wish I could write to grandma in heaven.
Why can’t I?
I quickly pick my pen back up and reach for my yellow pad. I can feel the emotions swirling in me like the wind swirling around the airplane.
I write the date in the top left corner. Then I write, “Dear Grandma,” at the top. The words fly effortlessly from my pen. I tell her how much I miss her; I ask her how she is doing, if she is reunited with grandpa and if she is happy.
After I finish, I fold the letter into a tiny little square like we used to do in middle school and stick it in my pocket for safe keeping.
The rest of the flight goes by in a blur. I think the gambler finishes her book just before we land. By the look on her face, I think she is rather disappointed by the ending.
We say our goodbye’s as we leave the plane. She tells me “good luck.” I don’t tell her that I’ve finished the eulogy, or letter rather. It’s a personal victory. I want to savor it for myself.
My father is waiting for me at the gate. He looks tired and he eyes are puffy and red.
“I wrote it,” I tell him as we embrace. I can feel the edges of the folded letter poking me in the side of my leg from my pocket.
“Thank you for doing this,” he says. “I know it will be wonderful.”
“It’s just a letter Dad. All I did was write her a letter. It’s what we’ve always done, it’s how we’ve always communicated. I guess I just figure that she’ll appreciate it more, wherever she is.”
My father nods and gives me another hug. As we walk down the corridor, I wonder if I’ll get up the nerve to read the letter out loud.

Story ID:	413
Written by:	Lyndsey Darcangelo (bio, link, other stories)
Story type:	Fiction
Location:	Buffalo USA
Year:	2005