Legacy

I have been asked to write many things in my life.
Recommendation letters.
Resumes.
Poetry.
Research papers.
Project descriptions.
Complaint letters.
Personal statements.

But never a eulogy.
I'm not sure I'd even really heard a proper eulogy. When my grandmother asked me to write a eulogy for my grandfather, the brave facade I had kept up in her presence came tumbling down. Little did I know that in 24 hours I would be at his bedside, and he would be soon to leave this world. When she asked me, I was taken aback. I was sidelined. I certainly hadn't thought his cancer had gotten that bad. I thought I had time. I had bought him a Christmas present.

I was silent.
She asked, "Korey, will you? Will you write something? You don't have to."

"I will" I replied, "but I don't want to have to" I said, and I broke down. I sobbed. And the next day I drove to their house nervously, wondering what I would see when I got there. 48 hours later, in my living room with its bare Christmas tree (there was no joy in this house) and my dog, and my sweats, I sat down with my laptop and started to write. I made an outline. Yes, an outline. Because I am, and will always be, an English major. I wrote. The words came easily, and I cried as I went along, happy to cry, because I was alone, and because I thought that writing out these feelings and crying over them might cauterize them, and allow me to mourn each thought and then let it go.

When the day came, I had read this eulogy many times, until it no longer made me cry and I could speak it clearly. I dressed in black, and drove to the cemetery, and I smiled. The day was turning out beautifully and I was happy for that. When the reverend asked me up to the podium, I lost it. The little girl inside me screamed, "I don't want to! I don't want this to be happening!" but the grown up cleared her throat and told herself that no amount of screaming would help, he was gone, and I was eulogizing him.

What an honor. What a privilege. What a responsibility.

I hope I did him justice.

Rest in peace, Len.