I don’t remember the eulogy spoken for my father at his funeral.
On that day almost six years ago, I sat in my childhood church’s well-worn pews of pale wood unable to comprehend the words offered as both a supposed comfort and a celebration. Although my body ached with loss, it wasn’t the fogginess of grief that created this disconnect for me. I couldn’t grasp a single word because the eulogizer spoke in Russian, a language my father did not speak and a language none of his family, including myself, understood. The man who took this honor of remembrance was the Bishop assigned to our Russian Orthodox parish, and he barely knew my father.
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