A Eulogy for an Old Habit That’s Dying Hard

I’m always eulogizing something. In 2012, I even wrote one for my coffee table. In my defense, that table had quite a history and was a feature in almost every place I’ve lived.

The day before my mastectomy, I wrote a eulogy to my breasts. And I wrote a second one a few years later as part of a book project.

After a particularly brutal heartbreak, I wrote a daily eulogy for the total number of days we were together.

My maternal grandmother is currently 98. For the last couple of years, I regularly think about what I will say when she passes. She’s had such a huge impact on my life and I want to make sure that when the time comes, I do her justice.

I don’t think that I’m a particularly sentimental person, although this habit might suggest otherwise. I’m admittedly a little obsessed with death and legacy and meaning. I want to not forget. I also want to be known. And I feel like the only way for someone to know me is for them to know about the people and things that are no longer here, and how they shaped me.

Last year, because of a mold catastrophe I threw away almost everything we owned. As I tossed each object into a dumpster, I wondered if I’d remember it later. Much of it I do remember- the outfits each child wore when I brought them home from the hospital, my wedding album, doilies my great-grandmother made, letters from my grandpa, paintings I made in elementary school, notes passed during seventh grade english class. But there’s more that I’ve surely forgot.

As I’m sitting here in my new, tiny apartment surrounded by very few things, I wonder if it even matters. Other than me, who cares about the history of my becoming? I am here now. I am being me. I am letting more and more people get to know me who know nothing of my coffee table or the name of the boy in middle school who used to write me notes in class.

Just yesterday I broke a delicate, porcelain teacup and paused. The tea set was one of the few things I still have from my great-grandmother. My kids love pouring herbal teas from the pot into the tiny cups and sipping while they read over breakfast. Now we have one less cup. With a small amount of effort I reminded myself that there are more tea cups in the set, stuff is just stuff, and there was no need for me to silently reflect on the meaning of the shards scattered in the sink. But, now that I’m thinking about it, I’m writing the cup’s eulogy right now.