Frank's Eulogy

All the glory when He took our place,
But He took my shoulders, and He shook my face
and He takes and He takes and He takes

Sufjan Stevens
from "Casimir Pulaski Day"

Last fall I began thinking about death. Pretty often, actually. To the point where I truly believed that I would--not could--die at any moment. When I came to this realization around mid-December, I noticed that I had been surrounding myself with death: Bright Eyes' I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning, Arcade Fire's Funeral, and Death Cab for Cutie's Plans--all overtly interested in death--had been in my cd player constantly. I'd been preparing for my Master's exam by reading the seventy-five or so works of literature that my professors had decided were "great," and coincidentally, most of them were about death, too. When I walked around my neighborhood, I often felt that some freak disaster was about to befall me: a seemingly innocent passerby would turn out to be mentally ill and push me off the Tenth Street Bridge; the driver of a tractor trailer passing me on Carson Street would suddenly lose consciousness, drive onto the sidewalk, and crush me beneath the trailer's bulk. At night, having survived another seemingly perilous day, I would lie in bed and tell God that I wasn't ready, that he would have to pick someone else this time, even while I knew that a person can't really tell God anything.

Well, he didn't pick me. But I wasn't off the hook. At 10:30 on an evening in late January, I had almost fallen alseep on the couch when my mom called and told me, in a terrible voice, that my father had died. He had massive heart attack, fell over, and turned blue, leaving her behind to figure out what to do next. And me, to try to quietly reinterpret my life.

A few days later, at the funeral, I read a eulogy for my father. I was told later that it had been perfect, recounting truths about his life, inciting laughter and tears, heartache and hope. But ever since I delivered it, I've been completely speechless about my father's death. Language, as Derrida liked to claim, has proved inadequate as a vehicle of self-expression. And so, my reinterpretation of life is largely inarticulate. I've been listening instead of speaking for what feels like the first time, and in my silence, I've come up with a better eulogy for my father. It's a collection of writings about death, fatherhood, and the blank terror that has gripped my consciousness during the last eight months. And it comes closest to telling the truth about the world as I see it now.

Sufjan Stevens, "Casimir Pulaski Day" (from Illinoise)
Li-Young Lee, "Mnemonic" (from Rose)
T.S. Eliot, "The Burial of the Dead" (from The Waste Land)
Anne Lamott, "O Noraht, Noraht" (from Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith)
Death Cab for Cutie, "What Sarah Said" (from Plans)
Arcade Fire, "Neighborhood #4 (Seven Kettles)" (from Funeral)
U2, "Wake Up Dead Man" (from Pop)
Bright Eyes, "Poison Oak" (from I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning)