Words for Mom's Funeral

by Kirsten Stade

There is so much I could say about Mom, but the most important thing, the thing that captures the essence of Mom, is something I can’t articulate, except in words that don’t make any sense. Words like

Oh for Heaven’s Sake,

You Complete Nitwit, 

Ch!,

You Idiot!

Mom for me embodies joy, and laughter, and unconditional support that is somehow vaguely threatening.

Mom was just full of love. 













She expressed her love in the incredible things she created, the angels, the trees covered with candy for the kids in the building, the ornaments, the mosaics. 

She expressed it in her gardening and composting and her nurturing of life. 









She expressed it in her love of animals and her indulgence of her kids’ love of animals.

She expressed it in the care packages she was always sending when one of us was away, and in the physical affection she lavished on all of us, human, canine, or of the budgie persuasion.

Mom loved to laugh. Whether at Monty Python or at a Fourth of July firework that made serial whistling explosions, she gave herself up entirely to her laughter and it was impossible not to be swept up in that joy right along with her.







Mom was always good for a hug. 

You could come up behind Mom, wrap your arms around her, and make car alarm noises over her shoulder while you made little explosive gestures with your hands, and while she might remark that you outta have your head examined, she would accept your affection and return it.

Something about Mom was explosive, in a good way. 





Or at least something about her occasioned explosive feelings of joy in me. 

Because of her lack of inhibition about expressing joy and love, I guess I grew up with a similar lack of inhibition

with the result that I often felt compelled to skip into her bedroom while clapping my hands and at the top of my lungs saying HI MUM HI MUM HI MUM HI MUM HI MUM HI MUM HI MUM. 






And I felt no compunctions about behaving in such a way with her, because I knew her response would be completely affirming and validating—that is, she would look at me witheringly, brows slightly knit, and call me a complete nitwit.

Mom seemed to have a sense for giving you exactly what you needed, whether that was unconditional acceptance and encouragement, or withering scorn delivered in such a way that you felt thoroughly loved.

It is hard to imagine life without her laughter, her humor, her NPR impersonations, her unique terms of endearment and scorn. My hope is that we will keep her with us by keeping alive her extraordinary current of unfettered silliness and joy.