Eulogy For My Mom

In 6th grade I wrote a report on the end of the Roman Empire. I compared it to a pumpkin vine and how it grew too big to sustain itself and then all the city-states on the vine perished. I got an A. In the 10th grade I wrote a poem about bloodthirsty cows called O’er the Fields They Did Come. O apostrophe er. It was a good poem. It was descriptive and funny and my teacher had me read it in class. Those are my two moments of genius and yes, I am aware the time gap between 6th and 10th grade and that there really hasn’t been much since, but my mom saved these things. She thought they were good. Like really good. And because she thought they were good, I thought they were good. And I thought I was good. My mom made me feel good. She always made me feel good.

My mom was a mom mom. She was an archetype. I didn’t know that as a kid. She was just my mom. It’s all I knew. A kind and good loving empathetic compassionate force. But as I got older and introduced my friends and peers to my mom, whom I’d painted as a regular old mom, they’d say, ’No dude, you have a mom mom.’

My mom fussed and fawned. She also stood back and gave space. She supported and celebrated. She kissed and hugged. She laughed and cried and cheered. She was a mom mom.

My mom put her children and family first. Always, no matter what. For example, we’re all swimmers. My brother, my sister, my dad. We…