At Your Funeral, I'll Remember

The thing about dying is, well, you die. You're left behind. And to celebrate, commemorate, and remember your life we hold a funeral. It's sad, scary, and somber. How can you fit an entire life into a forty-five minute speech? How can those memories, feelings, and thoughts be compiled into a few words? And how will another ever know how those memories, feelings, and thoughts felt? But the thing about these speeches is something of glory. They don't talk about your schooling, finances, or ownings. They talk about your adventures, your memories, how you affected people, and who you were. Life isn't about those 'big' decisions, even though you they it is now. It comes down to the little things. The way you played with your kids. The way you held someone's hand. The way you looked at someone - anyone. The way you were. Something else people remember? No, not your flaws, but your quirks. Those little things that made you the way you were. Those are worth remembering. We don't care about where you go to school, how much you make, or how much stuff you own. We care about you. The core of what makes you that way. I'll always remember the way you walked into the room or the way you combed my hair. I'll remember those jam filled cookies and your incessant need to clean up after me. I'll remember you every time I see those humming birds because you taught me they are the only ones to fly backward. I promise you, I'll remember.