Eulogy

Recently I’ve been thinking about that 8 foot plot of land outside of Heathers that my parents buried my grandfather in. It’s amazing how many tulips and roses can fit in an 8 foot plot of land. At his funeral my father gave the eulogy and he said beautiful things about him; painted him a saint. And it’s all true, he was a saint in his own way. My father said he never once yelled at the dog for slobbering all over his recently shined dress shoes and he gave the mailman lemonade and granola bars. He said that my sweet grandfather even listened to every solicitor that came to knock upon the dark red front door. That story in particular drew a laugh of admiration and looks of awe. I’ve never met a man who would listen to any solicitor at the front door, much less every one. If I had been old enough at the time to really know how to give a speech about the dead to a room full of living people without crying I would have said that my grandfather was a shepherd, with flocks of children in his herd that he would lead to ice cream parlors and apple orchards with the gentle nudge of a seasoned guide. And God, was he good at it. I bet that’s what he’s doing right now: Guiding the children taken too early to the heavenly ice cream parlor for their first taste of divine buttered pecan in a fresh-baked waffle cone. Writing Challenge - E Words' Poetry Contest sponsored by Constance La France 2/11/2023