Eulogy for My Mother the Mage

Hi. Hello. Sorry, I’m not used to doing things like this. For those of you who don’t know me…which seems to be a good many of you, my name is Elizabeth. Diane is…was my mother. She was my mother for my entire life, obviously, but I was only her child for a small portion of hers.

My mother was always old. That sounds almost cruel to say, though maybe age isn’t quite a burden to the likes of you as it is to the likes of me. See, I’m 53 and I feel my age with every step I take. But you, all of you, I look out into the crowd and I see young eyes held in decrepit faces. It’s interesting. You’re all interesting people, really. Thank you for coming today. I’m sure my mother is glad to see you all, wherever she may be now.

Sorry. As I was saying, my mother lived a long life. This I always knew. She never told me exactly how old she was. I’m not sure if she herself was certain. I asked her once when I was little, and she told me she was as old as the furthest star in the night sky. Which isn’t exactly an answer now, is it?

My mother lived a long, long life. And during her long life, she had a great many children. She spoke of them often. Marcus. Her warrior. Her first. Then Sarah, the first one with a Christian name. Edward, who was ahead of his time. Meredith, the one who died the same year I was born. Yes, all of those children are long dead now. Lost to time and history.

Am I the lucky one, then, who gets to witness my mother’s death, at long last?

I remember when Janet called me on the phone to tell me the news. “Lizzie,” she said. I remember her voice was shaking. “Lizzie,” that’s what she called me. I’m young to Janet. To all of you. Though I feel my age - though I’m half way through my life, at least - I’m a spry young thing to all of you here today. “Lizzie,” Janet said, “It’s Diane.”

When Janet told me that my mother died, I laughed. Death does not touch my mother. See, my mother is - was - a weaver of old. From the old world, from the old times, from old magic, everything about my mother was old. Since the day I was born, she has always been old. My mother weaves. Wove. I’m sure I don’t have to tell anyone here. My mother wove dreams. In the old days, this is how she made her living. Weaving for lords and ladies and royalty of all degrees, she could create any dream they desired on her endless tapestry.

She showed it to me many times. It folded over itself after reaching the length of the living room three times over. That wasn’t all of it, but it was all I could see. I could see the past century of weaving.

The modern world has no space for dream weavers. The need is there, certainly, but the art is all but lost. With it, I lost my mother.

I lost my mother. Oh God.

Sorry. Um. Anyways, as I was saying, death does not touch my mother. My mother who weaves dreams. She told me once that that was the key to immortality. And she did say immortality. “Even if,” she said, and she did specify “if”. “Even if I were to one day die,” my mother said to me, “I would live on in a dream. And in that dream I would continue to weave.”

She was always weaving, my mother. Her hands going to and fro day in and day out. She wove every single dream of mine with great care. Great love. I asked her, “Mama, if you die, can you live in my dreams?”

She laughed. Said that every child before me had asked for the same promise. And she said that she would work to come into each of our dreams, yes, and live there.

But see, she always said if. Because death does not touch my mother.

My mother has not been in my dreams lately. Rather, I dream of dancing pigs. Some of you laughed just then. It’s alright, I don’t mind. Those of you who have seen her tapestry lately know of the pigs. Those are mine. It was a dream she gave to me when I was young. We raised pigs, out on our land. They were dear to me. Every season I got to pick one to raise in the house until it was too big, and every autumn mother let me save one from the slaughter.

Sorry. Anyways, the pigs are mine. Those rows and rows of dancing pigs. Mother gave them to me on a whim one night, and I loved them so much that I asked to dream of them every single night. So the past 50-some years of her tapestry work has been only that. The dancing pigs.

They’re still there after all this time. After seeing my mother’s lifeless body, which I was so sure was beyond the reach of death, still I only dream of pigs. I almost wish I could dream of something else. I almost wish I could dream of my mother. But I don’t. So, you see, I’m a bit confused today.

You’re all good people, I know, so if one of you knows something that I don’t know, please say it now.

...No? Not a single one of you? Come on.

What am I getting at? I think you know. That is not my mother in the casket.

How am I the lucky one who gets to watch my mother die? When Janet called me on the phone, do you know what she said? “Lizzie, it’s Diane. She’s dead.” And I laughed. I laughed and I laughed and laughed.

“Right.” I didn’t believe it from the start. “And how did that happen?”

And Janet was quiet for a long while before at last she whispered, “She was just old, Lizzie.”

Old? My mother, old? Of course she’s old. She’s been old since the day I was born. At what age is magic no longer enough? How heavy must the weight on her bones at last be to let them crumble? My mother has tonics for cough and spells for sniffles. She has ointment for aches and a tapestry full of thousands of years of children’s dreams. How is my mother, now at last, too old?

Aren’t I the lucky one. Every child before me got to die with their mother at their side. And me, why must I be the one to lose her before my time?

I still dream of pigs. Only pigs, dancing in a neat line, kicking their hooves up against the bright sky. My mother has not come to visit me yet. She told me she would be here even if this day ever did come.

Where is my mother? Where has she gone? Why can she not reach me now?

Does a magic as old as hers just vanish now? I refuse to believe it. Because I still have my childhood dream, my mother lives. This I know.

Sorry. Thank you everyone for coming. Thank you, truly, though this is nothing more than a ruse. A trick. Mother, come out now. Open your eyes. Open your eyes, mother. Get off me. Off me! Mama, mama please!