Eulogy for Sarah Francesca Chianese

How am I to eulogize my mother, Sarah Francesca Chianese? It's not that I lack the linguistic capabilities. I know my ABCs. I can count fairly well. Still, this is not a task that comes easy. I'm sure there are guides—a simple Google search and several clickbait articles will pop up. Ten easy ways, etc. I'm going to wing it, so excuse me.

My mother was 58 years old on April 15th at 4:39 AM when she passed on from our shared world. She is survived by her two children, Hailey and myself. Far too young. Her diagnosis of glioblastoma was never going to be survivable. She knew that from the onset, and conducted herself with an astounding measure of grace and kindness that persisted through her final months. As I scrambled—making calls, talking with doctors—she settled in. In stillness and confidence, she made her peace with the world and with God. She never lamented. Never woe is me. Never complained. She hyper-focused on practical things—calling friends, deciding what snacks she wanted in the house.

She never wanted a service. For years, long before any signs of cancer, we had argued about the details surrounding her inevitable departure. Burial versus cremation. The words on a stone she never desired. She insisted she wanted a party—the one thing I took little interest in helping her achieve back in late October of 2024. I'll leave a link below for those who could not attend. Sarah's celebration of life party remains one of the single best days of my life. Like so many things, my mother was entirely in the right. Among countless instances of amicable disagreement—or in this case, indifference on my part—only after the fact comes my final admission: she knew what she was doing.

My mother understood her desires and pursued them relentlessly. She valued life, and she wanted those who loved her to love themselves—to celebrate themselves every single day.

I've always described her as a workhorse. It's not an epithet. I think we all know people capable of immense drive and determination. They're simply a different breed. They enjoy it—it makes them happy. God bless them. Whether it was reclaiming and restoring old barns, working in a law firm in her early twenties, or dominating the Hudson Valley with her catering company in her late fifties, she got the job done—always in record time, with unreal competence. Her passions led her to be one of the most accomplished women I’ve ever known. She never wavered. In another life, she may have been a general.

Some may not be aware that she had a myriad of creative pursuits—a common trait in my family. These inclinations showed through her unabashed culinary genius. My most precious tangible possessions on this earth are her surviving paintings and sketches. We lost most of the ones I grew up with in a fire some years ago. The works she created while living in Colorado are my treasures. They have always shared a common theme: my mother, dancing under the moon. Even when still or without a human figure, the moon is present in ninety percent of these artworks. I finally tried to ask her about it. I did not understand the answer.

Carl Jung wrote of his mother in his autobiography Memories, Dreams, Reflections. He described her as having what he called a second personality. I can think of no better way to define the dual nature of my own mother. She could be kind, supportive, comforting, driven, patient, stubborn, gregarious, funny, innocent, naïve, weak, and cunning. On the other side of a very clear delineation—at least for me—she could be insightful, powerful, domineering, fierce, unmovable, private, secretive, wise, dismissive, callous, and objective. If you never met this second personality, I both pity your ignorance and congratulate you. It could be an ordeal—like locking gaze with Medusa.

The hardest thing for me right now, as I sit down to write this, is confronting what I suspect will become objective truth for the rest of my life: I will never, ever have somebody who loves me as deeply as she did, or who will understand me as completely. My mother remains the giant upon whose shoulders I stand. And that really, really sucks. I hate that.

It's important for the reader to understand that if you knew her—no matter how briefly—and she pulled you into her life, it’s because she wanted you there. You were loved by this woman. You were cherished. She was a genuine human being. She only wanted your success—in every aspect: family, career, spiritual, emotional. She valued you greatly. You were appreciated.

Go where you are appreciated. Live and love and pursue your happiness—that is her desire for you. Please consider this truth. There is no ulterior motive. As a good dancer dances.

I'd also really like to thank everyone who supported her—and by extension, me—throughout her final battle. Whether you sent a card, or flowers, or a snack. You may have flown out and visited—or not. It matters little. Even if you just thought of her on a day, with concern and kindness in your heart. I cannot, through words, express how grateful I am. I mean that.

Cook with abandon. Or not at all.