Eulogy

She flashed, piercing, upon the screen and I, though fastened in my suit and steeled to speak apostasy, stood riddled, my notes a sudden blur. Posing after the War, she beamed outward joy. Unbound by family ties, her beauty and bright eyes bore worlds of possibility, and sank me in my grief. She would not abide the godless vision about to be her tribute, but would accept the burden it imposed. We had that understanding, even as I questioned faith that long ago solidified, forming the foundation of her life. Today those Irish eyes were less forgiving of the way I blubbered through my speech, unable to keep my head above the waters. I told the story of my garden: how long before spring, yellow daffodils rise from their winter sleep, and continued, in spite of sibling prayers, with nature’s parade, from microbe multitudes making good the earth to pink blossoms on a cherry tree, from spring orgy to the oranges and reds of a fall denouement. The story ended with the winter solstice, shrouded in stillness, bereft of trumpets and grey, only darkness on a frozen stage. From nurturing Mother nature turns indifferent to our suffering. That death follows life is only natural, I said, though the dying may be harsh and cruel, as when parade gives way to predator and prey. Having risen from the waters, we alone reflect upon them and judge the balance nature found before disturbing it with progress. She gave up countless worlds to raise nine children. Though penniless at times, she kept her smile on her sleeve to show that she was happy and content, and loved us in the endless chores. Now frozen in memory her bright eyes plead against visions of shroud and stage that we who remain will trouble the water, moved to ease the suffering of others by the best in our nature.