My mother, Irene, died on May Day 1999. I briefly spoke at her funeral in Boone, Iowa, recalling the highlights of her beautiful life.
My dad, Vern, died later that same year and a small service was held in Carson City, Nevada. My siblings asked me to say a few words in his memory.
I walked to the front of the altar, looked out on the dozens of attendees and prepared to speak.
Nothing came out. Warm, wonderful memories clicked in my mind. His kindnesses, his sensitive mannerisms, his stories from the road, his awkward hugs and the quiet love he felt toward those he held close. Tears came to my eyes. I attempted again to mumble a tribute. No way. I just stood there, crying softly.
Moments later, I walked back to the family pew.
That’s all I remember.