Eulogy for a mother: templates and structure

For those of you who don't know me, I'm Sarah. Margaret was my mother. When I think about my mom, the first thing that comes back is the kitchen. Specifically, her kitchen, on a Saturday morning, with the radio playing whatever the local public station had on, and coffee already made before anyone else was up. She believed in being awake before the world made demands. That was Mom. [pause] There are a hundred stories I could tell you. Here's one. When I was sixteen, I came home from a date in tears. I don't even remember what the boy did. What I remember is that my mom didn't ask any questions. She poured two cups of tea, sat me down at the kitchen table, and waited. She let me cry until I was done. Then she said, very quietly, "He's not worth it. None of them are. Until one is." That was my mother. She didn't lecture. She listened. And when she did speak, she gave you something you could hold. She was practical in a way I'm still learning from. She made dentist appointments. She remembered birthdays. She kept a list, in a drawer, of every neighbor on the block and which ones needed checking on. She didn't talk about it. She just did it. [speaker note: look up here] To my dad, and to my brother Tom: she was yours too. I know how much you gave up to take care of her this last year. She knew. She told me. More than once. To Mom's friends from the church, the book club, and the Tuesday morning walking group: thank you for being part of her week. She talked about you constantly. [pause] I want to leave you with one image. My mom, in her garden, late June, dirt on her hands, squinting up at me through the sun, saying, "Come help me with the tomatoes." That's the mother I'll remember. Steady. Present. Already doing the work. Mom, thank you for everything. I love you.