Eulogy for a wife

Maria was late for everything except other people's bad days. For those, she was early.

I'm George, her husband of forty-seven years. Thank you all for coming. I recognize almost every face in this room from our kitchen table, which tells you something about her.

Maria was born in San Antonio, the fourth of seven children. She was a school secretary for twenty-eight years, which means that half the adults in this parish once came to her office with a scraped knee or a forgotten lunch, and she took care of it. She sang alto in this choir for thirty years. She grew tomatoes that she gave away faster than they ripened.

We met at a church picnic in 1977. She was late. I had been waiting by the lemonade for forty minutes, and when she finally arrived, she said, "Oh good, you waited." I did. For forty-seven years, I waited for Maria, and it was always worth it.

But when someone was in trouble, she was never late. When our neighbor's husband died, Maria was at her door before the ambulance left. When our daughter had her first baby at three in the morning, Maria was dressed and in the car before I found my shoes.

She leaves our children, Teresa and Mark, and five grandchildren, who all know how to make her tamales, though none of them the way she did. She leaves this choir one alto short. And she leaves me the lemonade stand, so to speak. I'll keep waiting.

Maria, for once, you went first. Save me a seat. I promise not to be late.

I'm not good at speeches, and Susan knew it. So I'll just say what I told her every night for thirty years: thank you for today. Thank you, Susan.

Carol held the hands of hundreds of patients in thirty years of nursing. At home, she held ours: through fevers, heartbreaks, and one very bad haircut I gave myself in 1992.

Every spring, Julia planted more than our yard could hold. Every summer, the neighbors got the extra. This spring, her bulbs will come up without her. I'm going to let them. I think that's what she planned.