What I Didn’t Say at My Daughter’s Funeral

I didn’t say that when she came here from Nicaragua when she was seven, she could catch fish with her bare hands. I saw her do this. At first, I thought it was an accident, a lucky grab. But then I realized that she’d caught fish with her bare hands before, in Nicaragua. It wasn’t a fluke. It was a skill.

Somehow, that my daughter had caught fish with her bare hands became the single most important thing I needed to say to the roomful of people who’d come to pay their respects. As if somehow describing the light on the water, and the silveriness of the fish, how fast they swam, how they moved unaware of the hand hovering just above the water’s surface would define her in a way none of the other tributes had.

I turned to my husband during the service and I said, I think I want to speak. We had decided before, after much discussion, that neither of us would speak, nor would our two sons. Our older daughter, the matriarch of our children, if you will, was handling everything – the crafting, the calling, the reading, the soft welcome of friends who spoke or sang. He nodded, go ahead if that’s what you want.

I waited. Listened to my older daughter’s eulogy of my younger daughter. I turned again to my husband and said, I don’t think I want to speak. That’s fine, he said, whatever you want.

I realized that had I spoken I only would have said one sentence: my daughter could catch fish with her bare hands. And to me that would explain everything about her, but it would puzzle everyone else. Everyone has a trick, they would think. Like whistling concertos or doing a one-arm handstand.

But hers wasn’t a trick. It was everything.

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After a long struggle with heart failure, our daughter died during her fifth open heart surgery two weeks ago today. She left behind her beautiful four-year-old daughter who is living with us and making me wonder if, when she is seven, she will inherit her mother’s unique skill.