My Mothers Eulogy
"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good." -W H Auden
There is a reason why I chose that poem. Or my mother did. Or we both did. I’m not sure.
I had chosen it to read at her bedside near the end.
That Auden is her favorite poet; and that this is her favorite poem of his; is nothing more than a hunch. A hunch because the possible answer to this question and the response to many others we had for her was stolen from us far before her life was. If the mouth were an organ, it would probably be her favorite. Or the left to the brain’s right foot, for she would not have experienced so much pain if it were merely a compliment to the brain. She had a brilliant brain. Both her mouth and her brain were stolen from her.
When the induced coma wore off, she awoke to many terrible surprises, some of which are too undignified to mention. Yet, whilst we are not sure she even knew about those, she knew she couldn’t speak.
All we had to go by were her eyes.
My mother, her family, and her friends all took great pains to communicate and interact with her for over two months. On the best of days, when she was most conscious – and most happy – she could respond to our questions with either a nod or shake of the head. Those days were rare and grew rarer as things progressed – funny word, that.
Once we had touched on the possibility that Auden was perhaps her favorite poet, we rattled off the rather extensive list of his most famous works. When we reached this poem, well, it seemed like the one.
Of course, It’s grim. I read some others. ‘Do you not prefer’, I asked, ‘this one or that one, or some other one?’.No, she said, or at least seemed to say, this is the one. The irony is that my mother’s most defining feature was her ability for expression. Choosing this startling poem was her final but tragic expression of will.
Is it a tragedy or a miracle, then, that her speech, despite being entirely embezzled (by doctors I blame completely but will never begrudge), her one-finger point ended up singing the perfect song?
So I stand here today and tell you that this seems to be the right poem to read. I also inform you that it was the last thing I said to Tobina when she was due to pass. I had already ‘said goodbye’ during a few close calls, so I do feel lucky that it was able to end with this final moment of connection.
***
What I am sure of, however, is who my mother was. Indeed, I myself am inclined towards many of the tendencies below.
She had a magpie mind. She is a bird for the words, with an eye and beak for collecting all sorts of wonderful trinkets and things, turning them into a nest to be reckoned with.
She was generous, but that isn’t even half of it. Her generosity also equally parts insightful and ingenious. She knew both you, now, and you, to be.
She made grocery shopping and most other forms of commerce seem artful as if she were gardening and cooking. Unprompted, she would pick this or that item from a tree, bits and bobs from some hard-to-find bushes, and whip it all up into a dish of great surprise, individuality, and empathy. These dishes came to exist as presents, sizes big and small. Being true to yourself was no less important than being committed to forward-looking growth.
Other times, the item in question may not have been either requested, desired, or – to be perfectly honest —needed. Lauren and I have had many conversations about the organic toilet tamer in our bathroom. We’ve never used it, and we are not quite sure if it lives up to the superlative taming that it advertises, but we certainly appreciate the alliteration.
However, her good taste and sense of creativity do not reside only in me. Father, I mean no offense, but my sister clearly got her fashion and decorative abilities from Tobina. In my father’s defense, he does have the ability to hold onto articles of clothing far too long, all the while collecting more craters than the moon, and insofar as this is a talent to be admired, I am proud to admit that I share it with him.
There will always be moments like this when somebody passes, and so many things are left unsaid, and mutual accomplishments are left unseen. Yet, one of my greatest regrets is not my own, and not for myself, but for my sister. I would have done unspeakable and unpredictable things to have been able to glance at the look and emotion on my mother's face when she heard the news of her promotion: to the global brand manager at xxxx. We had indeed told my mother while she was in ICU, but one can never be sure if she understood. What I am certain of, however, is that Oria is wearing my mother’s very best traits and characteristics like a beacon of light, and I hope to follow suit. There will always be a corner in my mind where my mother’s pen will live and work, and I will never forget her voice.
Thank you
