Love Story

When my parents were killed eight years ago, I wrote their eulogy. I remember the priest was a little nervous about including a eulogy. He said often a family member would get in front of the congregation and fall apart. I assured him that he didn’t need to worry. I knew that not everyone that attended the service would understand the rituals of a mass and I wanted to make sure there were words for everyone attached to my parents final celebration. A story for those that knew them, not just in church, but in life. And I wanted to tell their love story for everyone.

Most of the events of those days are kind of a blur for me. I remember being completely exhausted, but unable to sleep. Shayne was in the throes of psychosis and I just had no idea what to do about him. He would talk to himself and pace the house, sometimes walking out the front door in his pajamas and disappearing down the street. I’d assign myself a to do list for the day and push off the sheets with this song lyric in my head, “I’m coming up, so you better get this party started.” I know it is completely incongruous, but that’s what I felt like, like I was getting up and showing up and hitting all my marks. Like some damn performance. I remember so vividly my to do list the day before the funeral. Write eulogy was number five.

I remember using one of my daughter’s school notebooks and sitting cross-legged on my bed. All my best writing is done in bed. I chewed on my pen, considering my audience. My siblings. My cousins. My aunts and uncles. Father Dan. All the people who knew my parents. Then I wrote a one page story about a poor boy from San Luis Valley who traveled the seas to meet an Irish fisherman’s daughter. I contrasted their differences, highlighted their strengths and honored their faith and love, just like I was writing an essay for college. My parents in 250 words or less.

The day of the funeral is erased from my memory, except I get flashes sometimes. I remember Father Dan motioning me to the mic at the alter. I had a little glitch in my brain taking in how full the church was. It could have been an Easter Mass. I saw my human resource director come in and dip her finger into the holy water and my high school art teacher behind her, holding the program with my parents’ picture. And my neighbors from childhood were there. My Colorado Springs cousins to my left. The ladies from City Market in the back. All these people who had been touched by my parents’ lives and their love. I could see what the priest meant about falling apart, but I took a breath and started speaking. I got through my eulogy without tears, without wavering. The words felt strong and true.

I was going to repost the eulogy on my blog to commemorate my parents’ sixty-first anniversary today. I think the torn off notebook paper is in a box of my writing that I keep around. I also think I might have posted the eulogy on Facebook after the days of the funeral. But I realize that I don’t want to sift through those memories anymore. I have a different story of love to tell now.

I was over at my mom and dad’s on the day of their last anniversary in 2015. It was early when I got there, but my dad was gone and my mom was still in bed. Shayne was days out of his first experience of being hospitalized and injected by force with Haldol. We were all holding our breaths about what was happening with him, but hoping everything would be okay. I grabbed the paper off the porch and let myself into the house to work on the crossword puzzle. My dad showed up in the backyard with a hanging basket of flowers and hung it on a hook on the back porch. I watched him through the window. The flowers were a beautiful mix of pink cascading blossoms. Mom loved her pink.

When Dad came in, I passed him the front page. “Those are gorgeous,” I told him. He flicked open the pages of the newspaper and said, “She’s going to move it to another hook.” Mom got up a little while later and came out to the kitchen in her bathrobe. She noticed the flowers right away and went outside to admire them. Dad and I watched her through the window. She touched the blossoms and then reached for a step stool. She lifted the basket off the hook and moved it to another hook. I looked at Dad and he laughed. “Why didn’t you put it on that one to begin with?” “She always moves it. It’s got to be her choice.” When my mom came in the house, neither one of us said a word. Instead I wished them a happy anniversary. I asked them what it was like to have been married all those years. Dad said it went so fast. Mom said she wouldn’t change any of it. And then they started making breakfast together. Totally in sync. I can’t know all the ingredients that created the love that my parents had. But I do know the constant, everyday, little things are what left their mark on me.

So here it is again. Their anniversary. Another June. Shayne is in the throes of another crisis and I am facing life changes again. I literally have asked out loud my parents to help me. To show me the way forward. I realize they have already done that. Get up. Do little things. Pull the weeds. Make the bed. Be kind. Be accepting. Laugh. Have faith. Believe in the good. Everything will work out how it is supposed to. That’s the love story they left me to tell. But now I know am telling it for myself.