As a family we laid my grandmother, Cecilia Hilliard, to rest on Saturday, October 28th, 2006. Never believed I might say this about a funeral, but the ceremony was beautiful. Nearly every family member played a key part in the services. Some presented flowers, others served as pallbearers, and a few read scripture. Seeing us unite reminded me how important she really was to us, and how perfectly our coordination reflected her wishes that we all come together by choice and by love.

When my aunt asked me to deliver the previous entry as grandma’s eulogy, I was humbled. For some reason, the priest was very old school and would not sanction the reading of the piece anywhere except the tail of the service. A curious edict, especially since both my aunt and mother decided that based on the structure and flow of the services they designed the eulogy fit best earlier. But the priest was having none of it.

My relatives spared me the back room negotiations, which was a good thing, because another surprise decision bumped the piece back even later than the programs indicated. Up to the moment I crossed the altar, I was uncertain whether or not it was really a go. Or if the priest might inveigh halfway through. He did not.

As I read, I realized that my grandmother had bestowed one last unexpected gift. By writing her eulogy, Grandma’s passing gave me an opportunity to see my writing reach a group of people I care about.

It was the sort of real-time feedback that comes so very rarely for a writer, where the time ticks by in isolation, and the signposts are slim and none. A comment I’ll never forget: “You said what we were all feeling but couldn’t find the words to say.”

And I thought to myself, that’s as good as I can do.

And it’s good enough.

I barely knew my Grandmother as an adult, but all the same, I’ll never forget what she contributed to my childhood. Thinking back, the memory that bubbles up first is Christmas. Years when the whole family gathered at Grace Avenue for turkey, presents and good cheer. Perhaps those December nights stand out so prominently because the scene repeated many times, and the large cast of characters remained consistent each year; we were fortunate like that. Even more blessed, our numbers steadily grew. So when the family descended on Ground Zero for the big day, we were a huge brood, indeed. In the early eighties, it seemed like fifty people celebrating, each one spilling out of a corner or cranny, each one with a smile or a joke. Maybe it was more. Maybe it was less. But it was indisputably a lot of people for a house that size.

Christmas meant singing, too. Everyone was welcome to chime in for any verses to the Twelve Days of Christmas. Except one stanza. One line was Grandma’s and Grandma’s alone, and when I think about it, the sound of her voice comes right back through the years. The volume paused, the background chatter dipped, and every person watched the big smile on her face as she sang in a measured tone, Five Golden Rings.

There’s another moment of consequence. A grainy black and white picture of Grandma as a child. Today it sits on a table in my cousin’s living room, and on a bookcase at my mother’s house. A family portrait with her father, mother, and her sisters taken by a professional photographer. Despite her age, and height—she was just a little girl—my eyes without hesitation settle upon her. Grandma stood off and away from her sisters, away from the entire family, in fact. And though it’s clear who she belonged with, she distinguished herself, her arms and hands higher, her head tilted differently. Even as a child, the world was on notice. Cecilia Hilliard had something to say.

She was unique, and she lived a different kind of life. One where she was not afraid to stick out now and again, or take a few chances. Of all the places and people I’ve seen, I can say honestly, no one else was quite like her. I’m lucky she was the person she was.

Thank you for Christmas.

Thank you for my mother.

Thank you for Five Golden Rings.

Once the subject came up with a friend, perhaps more of an acquaintance, of what we might do with our last day on Earth, provided we were in excellent health and everyone we loved was alive. I’ll never forget their plan. Invite them all to the beach for BBQ, touch football, and horseback riding. Sip chilled beer as the sun drifts below the horizon, and lay beside their significant other on a big blanket at the edge of a bonfire. Later, fire off a few roman candles, and then listen to the waves break against the cool dark sand.

That’s not a bad way to close out any day, come to think of it. A hell of a finish, really.