Eulogies &
Memorial Texts

I pray Hail Marys. Only Hail Marys.
Mother is sacred.
Hail Marys are the smell of hot soup, the wet kiss on the forehead, the full breasts that catch the tears. Not Our Fathers. Those are the scars on my arms, legs, and back. They were once ruby red, the scars. Ruby red and slimy. They used to burn. Now, they are worm-like and numb, yet they never stop hurting. Not for a second do they cease to hurt. They say no pain lasts forever. But I know that is not true.
There are pains that seep into the soul and stay there, surely outlasting life.
When I was nearly thirty, I returned to Tuscany, you could say, in search of my identity. The land of my parents, surrounded by gentle hills that, like a vast, restless green sea, spread out into mountains—so different from the humid hills of the wild rainforest to which I had always fled. Where I ran when I wanted to escape my father's belt and his endless Our Fathers, forced upon me with his screams and blows. Drowning in my own tears, kneeling on corn until I bled. (...)