Dear Papa,

I wish you could have seen her.

Driving to the funeral home, she said “Should I read something, too?”

“Sure,” I said, “if you want to.” Thinking she wouldn’t, thinking there wasn’t enough time between now and the service to write something or find something to read. Thinking, if she went up there and said anything, it would be remarkable: a child, his beloved granddaughter.

She heard me read my eulogy out loud the night before, running it by my partner over the phone. She sat next to me on your bed and listened quietly. And then said, “That was good, Mom,” and leaned her body against mine, as, together, we missed you like we never had before. Like we will from now on.

We stood in the receiving line, next to each other. We greeted all of your people who were able to come: guys you worked with at the liquor store; your mentee and chosen brother Jack who flew up from North Caroline; Jeanie, Grams’ housecleaner of 20-plus years who also had become like family; former IBM coworkers, your cousins and in-laws, friends of your brothers, family of your late sister-in-law, Colin and Taney, Ruth and Ralph, Nancy from NYC, my mom her brother and spouses. I introduced Vesta to everyone, even your buddy Lenzo, pointing out that he had been the most convincing Santa Claus ever, who came to your house years ago at Christmas and left her in awe and delight as she squirmed onto his lap and whispered her list in his ear.

She had chosen an uncharacteristic whimsical white, taffeta dress from Target the day before to wear to your funeral. She paired it with a heavy, black velvet and lace cape and dark, platform boots from the thrift store, the latter very characteristic at 13, as was the winged eye makeup.

She politely greeted each person she’d never known or even seen before, each a familiar and welcome face to me on this particular day, beloveds and constants from my childhood. I’ve been gone 20 years, but they all remember me. They all still love me. And they love her. Saying things like, “I haven’t seen you since you were this high!” and “I’ve heard so much about you!” and calling her “Little Vesta” which you must have said to differentiate her from your mom when bragging about her milestones and accomplishments to the people who saw you through your 78 years.

Vesta grew weary after a longer span of time than I expected and rather than running off with her cousins who were playing in the back of the room, she went to her seat in the front row of the funeral home, slouched down, and pulled her phone out. She stayed like that until we all took our seats and I asked her to put her phone away.

As Reverend Lea conducted your service, she whispered to me “Is this good?” and passed me her phone. In her notes app, was the eulogy she had just written for you, in those 20 minutes. I couldn’t breathe as I read it, the world reduced to she and I and her words glowing form the small screen. She wrote about how she had decided to stop crying when she was 6 or 7, how she stopped seeing the point of her tears (a devastating insight into her father’s and my inability to tend to her sadness and grief for so many of her formative years, but that’s another essay). She continued that these past two weeks, the one you were dying in and the one you were gone for, she saw all of the adults crying. She witnessed our true expressions, how it brought us closer together, how we held each other and the tears soon and often became laughter. How maybe crying wasn’t so bad. At the end of the these paragraphs, she wrote a note to herself: “Tell stories about Papa:”

She was looking up at me with anticipatory eyes and I whispered back, “It’s amazing”, swallowed hard, took her hand and looked back up to the podium where Rev. Lea was inviting me up to read my eulogy (in full, below). After me, came your brother-in-law, reading a letter from your dear friend, Andy, who couldn’t be there that day. As he sat down, Vesta took a deep breathe, stood and walked the short distance to the microphone to face a room full of people who she’d only just met and who love her, some directly and some by proxy.

And she did it. My tears fell in equal time to my heart beating in astonishment and admiration. This 13th year has been the hardest for her. Her brain and body awash in hormones that brought moods and thoughts and feelings she’s never had before; forging an identity in a world that pulls at teens more than it ever has; choosing to move from her small, insular charter school she’d been at since kindergarten to go to the public middle school with four times as many children; interrupting her second month of school to come back to New York to be with her great grand-mother as she died and again at Christmas when you were mostly in your chair, tired and frail, and she and I went to the museum, the grocery and for walks uncharacteristically without you; and the battles inside her that she faced mostly silently and alone, me on the outside, scared, trying to reach her but finding no way in until I finally (finally) started to simply listen quietly and fiercely. She had changed so much over this year, fearful to approach the counter in retail stores, speaking in whispers when addressed by wait staff at restaurants or doctors at her appointments, too insecure to reach out to new friends at her new school, dressed in oversized clothes, dark makeup and hair in her face in an attempt to disappear. My child, who had danced and sang in the living room with abandon, who made us crack up at her spontaneous, singular observations of life, who laughed easily and made friends even easier, had become shy, withdrawn, small and afraid.

Until she stood up there. Until she read the beautiful words she had written. Vulnerable and close to her quick. I don’t think I breathed the whole time she read. She stood up there tall and confident. She commanded the room. Not a dry eye in the house, only the sound of rapt attention and a grieving child. I thought, “Papa would be so proud of her,” still not used to past-tense you. The thought familiar when living 3,000 miles away from you, like I’d be able to tell you all about it later.

Papa, this would have been the proudest moment, possibly of your life. The irony shredding me but also, of course. Where else would she shine so bright? What other circumstance would allow her to peak her head out of her adolescent armor but to share about her one and only, Papa. Now gone. Disappeared, like the phantom of her brother but with a million memories to hang on to.

She got to the “Tell stories about Papa” part and your loved ones shifted in their seats and into humor. She told about how she called you a warthog for your snoring before we even knew she knew what a warthog was. She told about going shopping for all the ingredients and making homemade caramel corn together in your kitchen one Christmas. She told about watching movies together, sifting through until we found one that we could all agree on finally and then you promptly falling asleep in your chair not long after it started. Everyone was smiling and laughing through their tears. I watched my kiddo up there, my love for her matched only by yours, and I not only saw her return to herself, I saw who she would be, who she is becoming. I saw this glimpse of everything being okay. That she will find her way to herself. That this early teen time is not forever. That she knows things in her bones that she is too young to know but that she will make good use of in her life, fodder and marrow.

I wish you could have seen her, too.

Love, Monica

P.S.: After your service and at the reception, people kept coming up to me, remarking on how remarkable she was, how brave and composed, how well spoken and thoughtful. How she made them cry and laugh, all at once. The looked me in the eye to say this, put their hand on my shoulder. They said without saying how lucky I am to have her, to have had you. At first, I was taken aback, expected praise of my own eulogy, as it had been so hard to write and I thought so meaningful in the end. And it was. But it was also a full circle moment, another irony , although that’s not the right word. It’s that while we are at your end, we are at her beginning.

I would do anything tho keep us all here together, for much, much longer. Squeeze that boy for me and give Gram a kiss. I miss you forever. Thank you for literally everything.

__________________________________

Eulogy for Papa by Monica Welty. April 14, 2023. Coleman & Daniels Funeral Home. Endicott, NY.

I just want to stand here and convey to you the countless memories and moments that I shared with my dad in a way that makes them as deeply meaningful, hilarious, heart wrenching, inspiring and life sustaining as they do for me. I want the unique bond that we shared to not live only inside me now, but to be felt by each of you so that it is not lost, so that I am not alone with it. With the most precise language, I want to impress upon your hearts the profound impact Papa had on my life: who I am, how I work, how I’ve created my family, how I find adventure and joy despite devastating hardships. 

But after sitting with my father last week as he was dying, I know that I don’t need to do that at all. After listening to him call many of you, tell me stories about you, share texts he sent, read the comments on Facebook that you left him, I know that each of you has a Rick-shaped impression on your hearts already. That each of you have been uniquely touched and influenced by this humble but great man that was my Papa. And that we will each go forward in our lives alone with that, together with that.

I had a boy, Harvey, who died in my arms when he was only two days old. Being a helpless witness to a newborn bravely facing the inevitable we will all face, taught me that we do not have to be afraid to die. If he could do it, we can do it. And just weeks shy of 10 years later, my father’s death taught me this again and in a new way. His death was vulnerable and brave. I listened to him tell dozens of people how much he loved them, how much they meant to him. I listened to him say final goodbyes with a grace and care and authenticity that I have never witnessed before. I especially want to mention the men on the other end, his brothers and best friends, his sibling and sons, who received these emotional conversations, who choked up, who said “I love you, too,” despite all of their cultural training to do none of that. It was gift to him and to all of us who were there to hear it.

My father gave us all a gift- in the way he lived: bringing good music, delicious food, fun adventures, thoughtful discussions, a passion for his work, a commitment to understanding, if not agreeing, with others, fierce loyalty, generosity and an endless, deep love for his family, friends and country. My father gave us all a gift in the way he died: on how we stay connected to each other despite time and distance, on how to treasure each other, on how to share the most beautiful and heartbreaking moments without wavering from who we are or what is happening to us.

There was some fear around his bedside that he had given up, lost hope, but what I saw and heard from him in his final few days was that there was no hope, he knew he was going to die and shortly, he was ready, at peace and that that was okay. And so I thought to myself “What are we supposed to do now? What is left when there is no longer hope?” and what he answered me in word and action was: togetherness. When there is no hope, we just stay in it together.