What to Read at a Funeral

They asked me to say something. As if the right words exist. As if you can stand in front of a room full of people who loved the same person and say the thing that makes it make sense. It doesn't make sense. That's the first honest thing I can offer. So instead of sense, let me offer this: She made the room warmer. I don't mean that as a metaphor. I mean she would literally adjust the thermostat when she thought you looked cold, and then deny it if you asked. That was her love— quiet adjustments no one was supposed to notice. The extra plate always set. The light left on. The call that came at exactly the moment you needed it because she had a gift for knowing what you needed before you did. I am not going to tell you it gets easier. I am not going to tell you she's in a better place. I'm going to tell you what I know: She was here. She was ours. And the fact that this room is full is the proof that a life was lived correctly. So here's what I want to say to her, if the dead can hear poems: We are cold now. The thermostat is exactly where you left it. And none of us have the heart to change it.