Hi Friends,

First off, I appreciate all the emails from my single friends (both men and women) about my dating mention in the last email. I would like to call out "Carl," who replied to my email with such a funny story about his dating life (which I am sorry I cannot repeat) that I blew coffee at my computer screen, notes, and keyboard. He wins. Hands down.

On another note, it is my Momma's 80th birthday today. In heaven. I can't even fathom that it has been five years. Of course, it has me all up in my head thinking and reflecting. Missing, aching, wishing. Wondering...

I came across a post on Facebook that I wanted to share because it hit me especially hard today, and I felt immense gratitude for the kind of relationship I had with my mom. I know that not all are so lucky.

And... I am blessed with some amazing friends that I should probably corner in a pub one day, with a list of things I love and appreciate about them, just to make sure they know. (If they are reading this, they are getting uncomfortable now.)

From Paths To Go on Facebook. This is from their page, but the way I came across it, I can't share a direct link. Posted on March 11, 2026.

"I wrote a eulogy for my best friend last week. Then I read it to him. At the pub. On a Tuesday."

He was alive, holding a pint, looking at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I have.

I'm Mick. I'm 70. The man across the table was Barry. Seventy-two. Best mate for 46 years. Met on a building site in 1979. He dropped a plank on my foot. I called him something unrepeatable. He bought me a pint after the shift. Haven't gone a week without talking since.

Three months ago, we went to a funeral. Bloke we'd worked with. Cancer. The eulogies were beautiful - people saying what he meant to them, things they'd clearly never said to his face. And all I could think was, he can't hear any of this.

Every beautiful sentence. Every "he changed my life." Said to a room of crying people and a box of wood.

I turned to Barry. Whispered, "What a waste."

Drove home. Couldn't sleep. Because I realized, if Barry died tomorrow, I'd stand up and say extraordinary things about this man. Things I've never said in 46 years. And he'd be in the box, missing all of it.

So I wrote them down. Took a week. Harder than expected - not finding the words, but admitting I had them.

Rang him. "Tuesday. The Crown. Need to read you something."

"Have you joined a book club?"

"Just come."

Same corner table. Pint of bitter. Crisps. I pulled out the paper. He saw my hands shake.

"Mick. What's this?"

"Your eulogy. I'm reading it now because I'm not wasting it on a day you can't hear it."

"Have you gone mad?"

"Probably. Shut up and listen."

I read it. In a pub. To a man very much alive and very much uncomfortable.

I told him about the plank and how it was the best injury of my life. About the night he drove forty minutes in rain to help change a tyre. About how he rang every day for three months after my divorce and never once asked "Are you alright?" - just talked about football and weather, because he knew I didn't need a question. I needed a voice.

I told him he was the funniest man I'd ever known, and his jokes were terrible, and both things were true. That he'd been a better father than he thinks. That his wife's a saint and he knows it. That I'd have been a worse man without him.

He didn't look at me. Stared at his pint. Jaw tight. Doing that thing men do when the feelings arrive, and they'd rather swallow glass than show it.

When I finished, long silence. Then he picked up his pint, took a sip, and said,

"You're paying for the next round. And the one after."

That was his answer. Perfect. Because Barry doesn't say "I love you too." He says, "You're buying."

But in the car park, he hugged me. Not the quick back-pat. A real one. Thirty seconds. Neither let go first.

And he said quietly into my shoulder, "Don't read that again at the real one. I want new material."

Who would you write a eulogy for - while they're still here?

Don't wait. The flowers can't hear. The box doesn't laugh. Say it now. At the pub. Over a bad cup of tea. You'll feel ridiculous.

They'll look uncomfortable. It'll be the most important thing you've ever done.

Read them the speech while they can still hug you in the car park.”

Let this story reach more hearts.......

Please follow us: Paths To Go

By Mary Nelson

I am just gonna leave that there. And if you are a writer who is crafting your first or fifth book, it is easy to see why stories are a special way of communicating on a deeply emotional level.

I have started putting the STOKE Publishing website back together (three fresh pages are better than none), and the Complimentary 15-minute Calls are available until mid June in limited quantities. If you want to chat, grab one while you can!

Take care,

Jennifer Sparks

www.jennifersparks.ca

www.stokepublishing.com