How to Write a Eulogy for Your Mother

My name is YOUR NAME and NAME was my mother.

Most of you knew her as THE PUBLIC THING — the job, the street, the role. What I want to tell you about is SOMETHING SMALL AND DOMESTIC.

ONE STORY. One room, one other person, one thing said or done. Sixty to ninety seconds.

That was Mum exactly. THE TRAIT THE STORY PROVES, without ever announcing it.

She leaves NAME EVERYONE — partner, children, grandchildren, in that order. And she leaves THE THING THAT CARRIES ON — the recipe, the phrase, the way you all answer the phone.

CLOSING LINE, spoken to her rather than about her.

My name is Ruth and Sylvia was my mother.

Most of you knew Mum from the surgery, where she ran the front desk for twenty-six years and knew every patient’s name and most of their business. What I want to tell you about is her handbag.

It was enormous and it contained everything. Plasters, safety pins, a sewing kit, boiled sweets, two pens, and a folded plastic rain hat she never once wore. When I was fifteen my friend Debbie split her school skirt on the bus, and Mum had her stitched back together on a bench outside the library in four minutes flat. She did not make a fuss and she did not tell Debbie’s mother. She just carried the means to fix things, everywhere she went, for fifty years, in case somebody needed it.

That was Mum exactly. Prepared for other people, quietly, without ever mentioning it.

She leaves my father, Alan. She leaves me and my brother Peter. She leaves five grandchildren, all of whom have been given a boiled sweet in a difficult moment. And she leaves a family who all carry too much in their bags, just in case.

Thank you, Mum. We are all still carrying it.