Now We Say Goodbye
Myshoesechoquietlyacross the floor, the chapel smelling faintly of flowers and old wood. Everyone watches me as I step up to the podium and unfold my paper. The words, herlife,stare back at me. A hush settles over the room as I inhale and adjust the microphone.
I catch Emma’s misty gaze, expecting myself to feel it too. To feel the sorrow, the sharp gravity of this moment. But as my hands grip the edges of the podium, there’s no pain, no sharp ache. Just a quiet calm settling into my bones and the truth pressing against my ribs: it’s time to tell the world who my mother was.
“Donna Jones, my mother, was the first person I ever met.”
I pause as a soft laugh ripples through the chapel. Dad smiles, and the tension eases slightly.
“She was also the greatest person I have ever met.” I wink at Emma. “Growing up, I didn’t even realize she had a job outside of being my mom. She was at everything, doing everything, helping us with homework, cooking our meals, I had no idea she was delivering babies and doing emergency C-sections while we were sleeping. It wasn’t until I was seven years old, when Dad said, “Your mom can’t make pizza night; she’s stuck at work,” that I realized her entire world didn’t revolve around me.” More laughter. “But that was the thing about my mom…she made it feel like it did.”
A tingle runs over my nose as the first ache of missing her settles around me like a fog. I rub my face as the scatter of sniffles and shaky breaths move around the room.
“As some of you know, my mother and I had a lot in common. We were both doctors, both parents, both wildly intelligent. We even gave my dad the same sympathy laugh at his bad jokes.” Nostalgia-filled smiles pop up around the room, but Emma’s face is pinched, knowing what’s coming. She helped me write this eulogy.
“We were two peas in a pod, her and I. Mother and son. And we both lost our memories.” The room stills. My sisters all stare at me, wide-eyed. Maybe it’s harsh to talk about memory loss at a funeral, especially when that’s what took her. But I know my mom, and I know she would want the truth, so I press on.
“One of my mother’s greatest strengths was her mind. Her ability to read a room, assess a situation, and handle it before anyone knew what was happening. I strived to be that person in all aspects of my life. Sometimes…to my own detriment.”
My own uninvited tears form at my admission. I look down at Easton and Sawyer in the front row, each flanking Emma, smiling up at me. The thought of losing them, losing Josie, stabs me in the center of my chest.
“But luckily…there were people in my life who never gave up on me.” My gaze returns to Emma, and the tears slip free. “Toward the end of my mother’s life, she wasn’t the version of herself she wanted to be remembered as. We still had moments with her, but we all know the truth about Alzheimer’s. It doesn't wait. And I believe it chooses its strongest soldiers to bear its weight. My mom was the strongest soldier I know,” my voice cracks.
“She was kind, and patient, and funny in her own intimidating way. She held us to a high standard but showed us grace when we faltered. She was intentional and nostalgic, and no matter how much she denied it, she lovedbeing the center of attention. She was independent, but loved giving my dad the chance to dote on her. Oh, and dote on her, he did. There isn’t another couple in this world I look up to more than my parents. Their love was a love that transcended time. A love that actually lived outin sickness and health.Mom knew how lucky she was to be married to Tom Jones, but my dad? He was just as lucky.”
Dad’s eyes are bloodshot as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Jay wraps an arm around him, and Tamara squeezes his hand. My heart beats in tandem with the tapping of Shayna’s foot as she tries to hold herself together.
“I was lucky to have her as my mother. But unlike her, I was lucky enough to not forget it.” The words sting as they leave me. To lose my memory and get it back…when she didn’t. There’s a cruelty to it. But she knew…even in her lost moments, she knew where things were headed. Our conversation a few years ago flashes across my mind.
I’m lucky, you know, she had said.I’m lucky to remember while I can. But I won’t let the things I forget take away from what’s to come.
“Mom was a fighter, facing the hard things with every ounce of strength she could muster, right to the very end. She had a joy about her that never wavered, even when she was lost in her own mind. Mom knew that life was a gift, and she soaked up every bit of it. Even if she forgot our names.” A small chuckle comes from the back of the room.
“And soak it up she did. Late-night drives, weird baking concoctions, and prank calls can attest to that. But in the end, the thing she soaked up the most was the final chapter of her love story. The greatest love story I ever got to witness. In her final days, when we weren’t sure if she recognized any of us, she still looked at my dad like he was her whole world. Even if she couldn’t say his name, you could see it in her eyes. He was it for her.” My eyes lock with Emma’s, and for a moment, I’m speaking only to her. “Thatin the end,hewas all she needed.”
“I learned a lot from my mom. She even taught me how to suture left-handed. But the most important thing she taught me was not to run away from the hard things, and not to fight them just to prove I can. To lean on the people who love me, even when I know I could probably do it alone. And to not be afraid of the unknown, to embrace that not everything needs a solution.” I chuckle at myself.
“My mother was an amazing woman, and this world won’t be as bright without her. But what a gift it is to witness a life that leaves an impression. What a gift it is to have someone worth missing.” I take a breath.
“As for the rest of us…” I look out at all the people who knew my mom, who loved her, and commit the picture to memory. “I know my mother would want us to carry this with us for as long as we can: don’t take life for granted, and cling to the people who areimpossibleto forget.”
“You did wonderful,” Emma whispers, lacing her fingers with mine when I sit. The pastor concludes the service, ushering us to the back room for the family meal.
A fewthank yousandI’m sorryslater, I feel touched out. Jittery from head to toe, I grip Emma’s hand twice. Without hesitation, she hands Josie over to Tamara, with Easton and Sawyer entertained by a few cousins, and we slip out the side stairwell.
The door opens to a narrow path beneath a line of elm trees. Their branches drape overhead, filtering the sun as we cross into the small cemetery behind the funeral home. Mom was cremated, with strict instructions that we take a family vacation to the Swiss Alps and drop her ashes off a cliff. But here sits our family bench, the nameJonescarved into its edge, near generations of buried relatives.
“Are you alright?” Emma asks once we’re seated. The names of my grandparents, Donita and Howard Jones, are emblazoned on thenearest headstone. Some of the plots have flowers on them, some are bare, and some plots don’t have a headstone at all, only a mound of dirt.
“Can you believe this is what happens to us?” I gesture at the scattered plots, the wind rippling around us.
Emma hums softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The sun hides behind the trees, yet her creamy skin glows as if the light insists on finding her. I brush my knuckles along her jaw, and she leans into my hand, her eyes fluttering closed. I could look at her forever. The pink of her cheeks, the curve of her lips, the gentle lines near her eyes. She overwhelms me in the best way.
“Do you know how much I love you?” I ask.
She smiles. “Do you know how much I love you?”
She shifts closer, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I think there’s more than this,” she says, waving toward the graves. “But I hope it doesn’t come for us too soon.”
