Ladies and gentlemen, friends, family, and all of you who clearly had the privilege of knowing Cats—unlike me—we gather today to honor a life that, by all accounts, was meaningful, impactful, and full of stories… none of which I was present for.
Now, I may not have had the pleasure of knowing Cats, but judging by the turnout today, they were clearly someone special. The love in this room is palpable—or maybe that’s just the scent of funeral home lilies, which, much like my knowledge of the deceased, is overpowering yet vague.
From what I’ve gathered in the last 20 minutes of awkward small talk:
- They were the kind of person who [insert vague, universally positive trait, like "lit up a room" or "always knew what to say"].
- They had a legendary [hobby/job/talent], which I’m sure was very impressive to those who understood it.
- And above all, they were deeply cherished by all of you—a fact I’m reminded of every time someone glances at me with polite confusion, wondering which part of Cat’s life I belonged to. (The answer: none. I’m just here for moral support and the potato salad.)
So while I can’t share personal anecdotes—because, again, I never met them—I can say this: If the measure of a life is the grief of those left behind, then Cats must have been extraordinary. Because all of you? You’re devastated. And that’s honestly beautiful.
May we honor their memory by continuing to [insert wholesome suggestion, like "laugh as they did" or "argue about their controversial BBQ sauce recipe"]. And may those of us who didn’t know them finally learn something about them at the reception.
Rest in peace, Cats. I’m sure you were great.