🔪 for the eulogy my muse would give for yours.
Nic turned her head down, her eyes locked on the paper in front of her. There were words, sure--but she couldn’t see them through the blurry tears that had been forming all afternoon. God, she hated funerals. Hated them with such a passion that even her rage felt small. It was not something she could conceptualize, though she knew her line of work required her to get used to it frequently. Clearing her throat, she finally looked up from the paper into familiar faces--not only because she knows them but that she shares the grief they felt too. “I--I, I’m going to be entirely honest, I really hate talking at funerals. I don’t think I’m particularly good at it either, but sometimes you’ve got to do the things you dislike the most because someone is just that important. And that’s exactly what Jack Whetstone is: important. Not because he held some fancy title at some big corporation, not because he had a yacht or a boat or whatever the hell he called it--but because of you all sitting here right now. All of us. Jack was so good at making relationships and making people feel valued, loved--even when we were stubborn as all hell and probably did not really act very lovable at all. He was wicked funny--I cannot tell you how many laugh attacks I had because of something he said and he was sharp too. And of course, those are all things I’ll remember about him--but it will forever be the compassion and care he treated people that makes up his legacy. If you need more proof, look at those around you--you don’t show up to these things for any other reason but you wanted to celebrate the life of someone important, someone fantastic, someone who deserves the celebration--and Jack Whetstone deserves that and more.”










