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Abstract

we all turn into our mother eventually, and I should be so lucky. I want to be the mom who, decades after the fact, can sing the chorus to my solo as Conscience in Peter Pan in elementary school. Or the mom who acts like a teenager with her neighbors, TP’ing houses and stealing a toilet bowl trophy that Waterford South may or may not have rightfully earned. Or the one who was always looking for the best blue golf shirt for Jack (even when police had Golf Galaxy surrounded) or bragging about Amelia’s internships (even though she didn’t understand what influencer relations really is).She wasn’t allowed to listen to Elvis as a child, but she did her best (ish) to embrace my love for Dooran Dooran, as she called them, earplugs and all. She was a softie for a dog, and she adored the friends she called hers.She was feisty and stubborn. She was kind and nurturing. She loved boxed wine and the sausage off of Imo’s. She was a college dropout (majored in parties at Mizzou, she’d say) yet was a talented writer who got to show off those talents later in life.She IS still all of these things, of course. Everyone who knew her embodies a part of her.As I typed in the address for the Uber ride home (it will always be my home, after all), I realized it’s one of the last rides home, but the first in this new life without her.Yet it’s the lasts you don’t recognize as such that are the most sad. I don’t remember the last time I could hold my kids (comfortably). I can’t remember the last time I hugged my dad before he died. I can’t remember the last time Mom called me by my only-to-her nicknames: Do Bug or Bab

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y Roast. But I remember the last time she said I love you to me, and I to her.I want to scream from the rooftops that she’s gone. But maybe if I don’t speak the words, they’re not true.But I can’t take back what’s been done. I can’t look back at what was still left to do. I can only look forward.I cry. I yell. I revel in a life well-loved. Of a heart that gave so much to others it could give no more.And as the sun streams through that tiny airplane window … as I’m the closest I’ll be to her, 30,000 feet in the air, that’s enough for now.Hug those you love. Be kind. Do good things. Set a good example. Remember that we are only here for a short time, and make those moments, whether there are one or a million left, count.<a href="https://medium.com/@FourBirds">Julia Byrd</a> has been a word enthusiast since elementary school, where she “published” handmade reference books for her school library. With over 20 years of writing experience under her belt, she’s been a copyeditor for an international brokerage firm, a tech writer for a government contractor, and an in-house wordsmith for an event planning firm, just to name a few. Nowadays, she’s a <a href="http://www.essay-coach.com/">college admission essay writing coach</a>. When she’s not helping students, you’ll likely find her on a quest for the world’s best French Dip sandwich or <a href="http://www.fourbirds.net/">writing for her personal website</a>. Julia’s got a soft spot for the apostrophe, because, in the words of Imagine Dragons, it’s “a symbol to remind you that there’s more to see.”</article></body>

A Eulogy for My Mother

Everyone who met her, loved her. I think you can see why.

The author and her mom, in younger days. Author’s own photo.

I wrote this eulogy for my mom on the airplane ride back to my hometown after she passed unexpectedly in May 2023. We had no idea such a normal day would turn tragic, with her suffering a heart attack that ended her life. I miss her so much and wish everyone knew what an amazing woman she was … and is. I hope you get to know her a little bit from this.

My stomach lurches and my eyes burn from a combination of tears and morning sun. I haven’t cried yet. I’ve got to be calm. Be aware. But this aching familiarity of the trip I don’t want to take is finally too much.

I don’t want to be here.

4,774 miles to go.

30,000 feet in the air.

80 years. Four months. 10 days.

3,363,840,000 heartbeats.

Yet the numbers feel like they don’t mean anything. Not today, at least.

All I know is that for the second time, two too many times, I’m late. It feels like that’s the only number that matters.

First my dad, now my mom. Both are gone in the blink of an eye. And I’m not there.

I don’t want to be here, giving this eulogy. None of us ever want to be in this place. But how lucky that those of us hearing (or reading) this have been drawn together by my mom.

They say we all turn into our mother eventually, and I should be so lucky. I want to be the mom who, decades after the fact, can sing the chorus to my solo as Conscience in Peter Pan in elementary school. Or the mom who acts like a teenager with her neighbors, TP’ing houses and stealing a toilet bowl trophy that Waterford South may or may not have rightfully earned. Or the one who was always looking for the best blue golf shirt for Jack (even when police had Golf Galaxy surrounded) or bragging about Amelia’s internships (even though she didn’t understand what influencer relations really is).

She wasn’t allowed to listen to Elvis as a child, but she did her best (ish) to embrace my love for Dooran Dooran, as she called them, earplugs and all. She was a softie for a dog, and she adored the friends she called hers.

She was feisty and stubborn. She was kind and nurturing. She loved boxed wine and the sausage off of Imo’s. She was a college dropout (majored in parties at Mizzou, she’d say) yet was a talented writer who got to show off those talents later in life.

She IS still all of these things, of course. Everyone who knew her embodies a part of her.

As I typed in the address for the Uber ride home (it will always be my home, after all), I realized it’s one of the last rides home, but the first in this new life without her.

Yet it’s the lasts you don’t recognize as such that are the most sad. I don’t remember the last time I could hold my kids (comfortably). I can’t remember the last time I hugged my dad before he died. I can’t remember the last time Mom called me by my only-to-her nicknames: Do Bug or Baby Roast. But I remember the last time she said I love you to me, and I to her.

I want to scream from the rooftops that she’s gone. But maybe if I don’t speak the words, they’re not true.

But I can’t take back what’s been done. I can’t look back at what was still left to do. I can only look forward.

I cry. I yell. I revel in a life well-loved. Of a heart that gave so much to others it could give no more.

And as the sun streams through that tiny airplane window … as I’m the closest I’ll be to her, 30,000 feet in the air, that’s enough for now.

Hug those you love. Be kind. Do good things. Set a good example. Remember that we are only here for a short time, and make those moments, whether there are one or a million left, count.

Julia Byrd has been a word enthusiast since elementary school, where she “published” handmade reference books for her school library. With over 20 years of writing experience under her belt, she’s been a copyeditor for an international brokerage firm, a tech writer for a government contractor, and an in-house wordsmith for an event planning firm, just to name a few. Nowadays, she’s a college admission essay writing coach. When she’s not helping students, you’ll likely find her on a quest for the world’s best French Dip sandwich or writing for her personal website. Julia’s got a soft spot for the apostrophe, because, in the words of Imagine Dragons, it’s “a symbol to remind you that there’s more to see.”