[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

And for those who are interested, the eulogy I wrote:

People say we should live each day as though it is our last, but my father took this one step further and lived as though he'd never have a last day. Ultimately I think this is awesome, but it would have been nice if he at least pretended he would have a last day, and maybe told us where the will is kept, or the lease papers for the car, or what each of the 300 keys we’ve found are for. It's been postmortem treasure hunt for important documents but instead of clues we find more keys. Sophie said it was like we were in a Pinter play, and that certainly suits my dad.

If I am angry about anything it's that this is, despite his age, a serious case of unfinished business. He had so many ideas and plans, he was still in the middle of so many projects both at the theater and at home, where he was planning a garden. He was the most active participant in this life that I have ever known, and I always looked forward to seeing what he had in the works. Right now I’m not sure where to refocus my anticipation and I find that it’s hard to love someone who has died because it feels so unrequited. A not-so-little piece of me is lost with him forever, but I can live with that. That piece belonged to him. I am so happy and lucky to have been this man’s daughter and friend. We were simpatico.

I will easily remember my father and the thirty-three years we had together. What I already deeply miss is the body that held me as a baby, spun me around as a child, and embraced me as an adult. He did not withhold affection for special occasions. He hugged you because he felt like it, because it was a good and right thing to love and be loved. Because the self-called girly man just couldn’t help himself. He hugged you when he was happy to see you, and he hugged it out with you when he was mad.

What he wanted out of life was simple: he wanted more of it. I wanted that for him, as well. But the way to get through this is to think about all that he did and not what he’s unable to do now. He had an epic and amazing life, and he was the most compassionate, interested, active, enthusiastic, and kind man I’ve ever known. He could also be a tempest in a teacup, a trait I inherited, but that only added a dash of enigma to his charm. And what he loved most in life was also simple: he loved people. He loved you, he really, really did. I am so grateful that he spent the last two and a half years also getting to know Erik, the man I’ve chosen to share the rest of my life with.

A friend and colleague summarized him well, “He fell off a roof. He made a great dog. He was my mentor, hero and friend.” I’ll add to that, “He saw the Red Sox win the World Series.” And, thanks to my mother, they finally made it to the Baseball Hall of Fame for the first time.

I thank him today for all the breakfasts we’ve shared these past few years, with all the philosophical discussions, our talks about art, the one-sided political debates I tried to avoid, the fights over nothing, the fights over something, and the endless respect and love we had for each other that they included.

I’ll close with a quote from the evolutionary biologist, Richard Dawkins:
We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Arabia. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here. – Richard Dawkins