How to Write a Eulogy for a Friend

Hi everyone. I'm Tasha. Brianna and I met on the first day of kindergarten, when she walked up to me and said, "I like your shoes. Do you want to be my best friend?" I said yes. That was twenty-nine years ago.

Since then we've shared a lot. A bunk bed at summer camp. A tiny apartment in Lubbock with a landlord we called The Mustache. Two weddings, hers first, then mine, where she gave a toast so long the DJ started playing music under it. Three kids between us. Thousands of phone calls on our commutes.

Bri was the friend who showed up. Not in a casual way. In an "I'm already in the car" way. When my dad died, she didn't ask what I needed. She was on my porch that night with a bag of groceries and a box of tissues and her pajamas. She stayed four days. She did my laundry. She answered my phone. She made sure I ate.

I keep thinking about one night in our old apartment. We were twenty-three and broke, sitting on the kitchen floor eating cereal for dinner. I was crying about something I don't even remember now. And she said, "Tash, we're going to be fine. We're going to be old ladies on a porch someday, yelling at kids to get off our lawn." I believed her.

To Bri's parents, Linda and Jim, and to Drew and the boys: thank you for sharing her with me. She talked about you constantly. She was so proud of her family.

Bri, we didn't get our porch. That isn't fair, and I'm not going to pretend it is. But I'll keep yelling at kids on your behalf. And I'll keep showing up for people, the way you showed up for me.

I love you, friend. I still like your shoes.

I'm Luis. Danny and I worked together at the shop for eleven years.

If you knew Danny, you know he was the guy who couldn't walk past a problem. A coworker's car wouldn't start, he had jumper cables. A customer was short on cash, he'd "forget" to charge for the labor. A stray cat showed up at the back door, and three weeks later it had a name, a bed, and its own food bowl in the break room. Her name is Lugnut. She's doing fine. We're keeping her.

Danny never made a big deal of any of it. If you thanked him, he'd shrug and say, "Eh, you'd do the same." Most of the time we wouldn't have. But he made us want to.

He also had the worst taste in music of anyone I've ever met. Every morning he'd turn the shop radio to the same oldies station and sing along, loud and off-key, to songs from before any of us were born. We'd complain. He'd turn it up. This week, nobody could bring themselves to change the station. It's still on. We're still listening.

The last thing he said to me, on a Friday afternoon, was "See you Monday, kid." I was forty-four. He called everybody kid.

To his wife, Carmen, and his kids: he talked about you all day, every day. Every story ended with something one of you did.

Danny, thanks for being the guy. We'll try to be the guy now. Lugnut says hi.

Hey, everybody. I'm Sam. Most of you know me as one of the "Thursday Guys." For those who don't, every Thursday for fifteen years, six of us met at the same booth at the same diner, and Kevin ordered the same thing every time: a patty melt, no onions, extra pickles, and a side of complaining about the Cowboys.

Kevin was the glue of our group. He organized the fantasy football league. He kept the group text alive. He remembered everybody's kids' names and birthdays and sent each of them a card with a two-dollar bill in it, because he said nobody ever spends a two-dollar bill, so it lasts forever.

Now, the inside joke. About ten years ago, Kevin confidently told the whole table that a "patty melt" was invented by a guy named Patty. He was so sure. He would not let it go. We started calling him Patty. And then, for reasons none of us fully understand, the waitress started calling him Patty. And then his own wife started calling him Patty. He pretended to hate it. He loved it.

But here's the thing about Kevin, or Patty. He was wrong about the sandwich. He was never wrong about people. He knew when one of us was struggling before we did. When I lost my job in 2020, he was the first call I got. He didn't ask how I was. He said, "I've got a lead. Shave and put on a real shirt." I got the job.

Sharon, Emma, Jake: he loved you more than anything. Every Thursday ended with him showing us a picture of you on his phone.

Patty, we're keeping your seat in the booth. We'll order you a patty melt. No onions. Extra pickles.

I'm Priya. Alex was my best friend from freshman year of college.

I'm going to say the thing everybody here is thinking. Twenty-six is too young. It's not right, and nothing I say today will make it right. I'm angry about it, and I think Alex would want me to be honest.

But I'd rather spend my few minutes on who Alex was, because Alex packed more into twenty-six years than most people manage in eighty.

Alex learned to play the ukulele from internet videos and then forced it on all of us. Alex once drove nine hours to see a band play for forty-five minutes and called it "worth every mile." Alex volunteered at the animal shelter every Saturday morning, even hungover, even in the rain. Alex texted me "proud of you" before every single exam I took for four years, even the ones I failed.

Alex was the friend who said yes. Yes to the road trip. Yes to the bad idea. Yes to you, when you weren't sure anyone else would.

To Alex's mom and dad and to Jordan: thank you for raising someone so wildly, stubbornly kind. You should know how many people Alex made feel less alone. It's a lot. It's this whole room.

Alex, I'm going to try to say yes more. I'm going to learn the ukulele, badly. And I'm going to keep telling people I'm proud of them, because you taught me how much it matters.

I miss you already. I love you.