Sharon
Danielle Baxter
Not For Her
“How did you write it?” they asked.
“I just did,” I answered. This was not the time to discuss my writing. I listened to their praise with passive indifference.
So beautiful.
So perfect.
We should have ended right there.
No. I’m glad we didn’t. It wasn’t time.
One after the next I worked my way through the crowded foyer. I recognized most of them, by face if not by name, and the ones I didn’t recognized me. They blur together now into a formless spirit standing vigil over the memory.
Some of them didn’t need to be there; some came to support those who did. Some came in purest peace; others held with them rage and disgust (not for her, never for her) thinly veiled with amicability. Some, her daughters, poised to rip each other to shreds over her carcass, forgetting that she never cared about the things; she cared about how they treated each other.
She would have scolded some of them – welcomed all of them – wept for a select few one last time, if she could have been there.
How did I write it?
Easy.
I didn’t write it for her.
I wrote it for them.
To remind them not of who she was, but of what she wanted for them.
What she would have wanted for you, if she had known you.
(She would have been your grandma, too, you know, if you had asked her to be.)
“I just did,” I answered. This was not the time to discuss my writing. I listened to their praise with passive indifference.
So beautiful.
So perfect.
We should have ended right there.
No. I’m glad we didn’t. It wasn’t time.
One after the next I worked my way through the crowded foyer. I recognized most of them, by face if not by name, and the ones I didn’t recognized me. They blur together now into a formless spirit standing vigil over the memory.
Some of them didn’t need to be there; some came to support those who did. Some came in purest peace; others held with them rage and disgust (not for her, never for her) thinly veiled with amicability. Some, her daughters, poised to rip each other to shreds over her carcass, forgetting that she never cared about the things; she cared about how they treated each other.
She would have scolded some of them – welcomed all of them – wept for a select few one last time, if she could have been there.
How did I write it?
Easy.
I didn’t write it for her.
I wrote it for them.
To remind them not of who she was, but of what she wanted for them.
What she would have wanted for you, if she had known you.
(She would have been your grandma, too, you know, if you had asked her to be.)
Eulogy for My Grandmother
Yesterday I made the mistake of remembering that I stopped deleting voicemails after my grandpa died. I have four of them from her. In the first she asks if my new haircut turned out, and if could I please send my aunt a picture to show her. She remembered I was going to get it cut that week. In the second she excitedly tells me she read something about using milk of magnesia to treat canker sores. She remembered they had been bothering me. The last two are nearly identical. They start with, “Danielle, it’s your grandma. How are you, honey?” She goes on to ask about my health because she remembered I had been sick.
The last messages I have of her are beautiful reminders of how kind and compassionate my grandmother was. I’m sure you’ll hear a lot about that part of her soul tonight, and we need those stories; we need those memories, but I want to talk with you about something else.
I want to talk to you about how wise she was.
I spent a great deal of time with my grandmother throughout my life, stayed there for days at a time as a child, an adolescent, and when I was a teenager, as she grew less mobile, my grandfather would call and ask me to come stay with her when he needed to go into town, a benefit of homeschooling. It was a privilege, and my time with her taught me much.
She taught me to cook when I was very young, and while her cooking was stellar, eight-year-old me wasn’t quite as skilled. I would get discouraged when things didn’t turn out ‘like grandma made them.’ But she taught me that in the end it does not matter how good your cooking is; it matters that your family eats.
She taught me that to get things done you don’t have to be aggressive or mean; you just have to be persistent.
She taught me, and this is the wisdom that echoes in my head most often, that “it’s not a sale if you don’t have the money in the first place.”
She taught me that a strong, stable, loving companion makes the entire journey easier, more enjoyable. That’s why while my grandpa always told me I had to go to college, my grandma always told me to find a man like my grandpa, to settle for nothing less.
She taught me a great number of lessons, but there’s one lesson I should have learned from her that I didn’t, that I took for granted, a lesson it took my grandfather’s death to teach me. See, not that long ago my cousin Gage stood here, giving his eulogy, and he mentioned that many folks say after the death of a loved one that they wish they had more time. But Gage had the time. He just didn’t use it, and neither did I.
I promised myself then that I wouldn’t make that same mistake again, not with her, and I made it a point to go out to her house for dinner once a week from there on out. So I can tell you now, with absolute certainty, that even if you use your time, it will not be enough.
If there were such a thing as getting enough time with our loved ones, we would not have to grieve.
But I promise you this, I’m not sad she died; in fact, I’m joyful for it. I’m glad she will never see another earthly sunrise, only to be reminded that she cannot stand to run and chase the morning. I’m glad she won’t reach another summer, only to be reminded that she cannot swim in the river she once called home.
I’m glad that she will never meet my children, only to be reminded that she no longer has the strength to hold them.
I’d argue that most of us are not sad she’s dead, that she’s no longer trapped here in a body that betrayed her; we’re sad that we lost her.
We’re sad. We’re grieving. We’re in pain. And for this some would say that if you want to see a family at their worst, go to a funeral. But this is not us at our worst. This is us at our finest. Every part of us, every piece of her family is represented here. Tonight our talents are on display, at their most pure, to honor her: the woman who created us.
It was one of her only regrets, that she never had a career, but I always told her she did. Of course she did. She was a nurse. She was a teacher. She was a craftsman, a musician, a documentarian, a comedian, an artist. She was all the things we are and will ever be because she was a mother.
Without her, there is no us.
That is part of why this hurts so much. We didn’t just lose her; we lost our anchor, our origin, and it feels like such a permanent and irreparable sundering.
A generation has ended. Sharon was the last. And so you are here with us at the end of an era, to witness the birth of a legacy, and for that, I say thank you. Thank you for being here with us to honor her, in her grace, in her compassion, in her wisdom. Thank you.
The last messages I have of her are beautiful reminders of how kind and compassionate my grandmother was. I’m sure you’ll hear a lot about that part of her soul tonight, and we need those stories; we need those memories, but I want to talk with you about something else.
I want to talk to you about how wise she was.
I spent a great deal of time with my grandmother throughout my life, stayed there for days at a time as a child, an adolescent, and when I was a teenager, as she grew less mobile, my grandfather would call and ask me to come stay with her when he needed to go into town, a benefit of homeschooling. It was a privilege, and my time with her taught me much.
She taught me to cook when I was very young, and while her cooking was stellar, eight-year-old me wasn’t quite as skilled. I would get discouraged when things didn’t turn out ‘like grandma made them.’ But she taught me that in the end it does not matter how good your cooking is; it matters that your family eats.
She taught me that to get things done you don’t have to be aggressive or mean; you just have to be persistent.
She taught me, and this is the wisdom that echoes in my head most often, that “it’s not a sale if you don’t have the money in the first place.”
She taught me that a strong, stable, loving companion makes the entire journey easier, more enjoyable. That’s why while my grandpa always told me I had to go to college, my grandma always told me to find a man like my grandpa, to settle for nothing less.
She taught me a great number of lessons, but there’s one lesson I should have learned from her that I didn’t, that I took for granted, a lesson it took my grandfather’s death to teach me. See, not that long ago my cousin Gage stood here, giving his eulogy, and he mentioned that many folks say after the death of a loved one that they wish they had more time. But Gage had the time. He just didn’t use it, and neither did I.
I promised myself then that I wouldn’t make that same mistake again, not with her, and I made it a point to go out to her house for dinner once a week from there on out. So I can tell you now, with absolute certainty, that even if you use your time, it will not be enough.
If there were such a thing as getting enough time with our loved ones, we would not have to grieve.
But I promise you this, I’m not sad she died; in fact, I’m joyful for it. I’m glad she will never see another earthly sunrise, only to be reminded that she cannot stand to run and chase the morning. I’m glad she won’t reach another summer, only to be reminded that she cannot swim in the river she once called home.
I’m glad that she will never meet my children, only to be reminded that she no longer has the strength to hold them.
I’d argue that most of us are not sad she’s dead, that she’s no longer trapped here in a body that betrayed her; we’re sad that we lost her.
We’re sad. We’re grieving. We’re in pain. And for this some would say that if you want to see a family at their worst, go to a funeral. But this is not us at our worst. This is us at our finest. Every part of us, every piece of her family is represented here. Tonight our talents are on display, at their most pure, to honor her: the woman who created us.
It was one of her only regrets, that she never had a career, but I always told her she did. Of course she did. She was a nurse. She was a teacher. She was a craftsman, a musician, a documentarian, a comedian, an artist. She was all the things we are and will ever be because she was a mother.
Without her, there is no us.
That is part of why this hurts so much. We didn’t just lose her; we lost our anchor, our origin, and it feels like such a permanent and irreparable sundering.
A generation has ended. Sharon was the last. And so you are here with us at the end of an era, to witness the birth of a legacy, and for that, I say thank you. Thank you for being here with us to honor her, in her grace, in her compassion, in her wisdom. Thank you.