Eulogy for a Cousin Examples and Which Years to Speak About

A eulogy for a cousin works best when you pick one era of them and speak about it honestly, instead of covering a whole life you only saw part of. Most run 400 to 600 words, about three to four minutes. The four speeches below are complete and you can put your own names and stories into any of them.

Cousins are a strange thing to write about. You did not choose each other. You were handed to each other at a grandparent's house, and for a few years you were as close as siblings, and then adult life pulled you four hundred miles apart and you saw each other at weddings.

So when someone asks you to speak, you hit a problem the other speakers do not have. You have a childhood full of material and an adulthood full of gaps. You do not know which of those two people you are supposed to stand up and talk about.

You are allowed to pick one. That is the whole answer, and the six decisions below get you to the words.

Six Decisions, Then the Words

Make these in order. Each one takes about a minute and the draft gets much easier after the first.

1. Which era of them are you speaking about?

Pick the years you actually saw, and say out loud which years those are. A eulogy that covers a whole life you only witnessed in pieces comes out vague, and the room can hear it. Naming the window is not a confession of distance, it is what makes the next three minutes specific.

Lines that do this work in one sentence:

• "For about nine years we were inseparable for one month out of twelve."
• "I knew him best between the ages of six and fifteen, and I am going to talk about then."
• "We lived four doors apart for most of our childhood, so most of what I have is from before either of us could drive."
• "I saw her twice a year for twenty years, always in a room full of family, and that is the version of her I can tell you about."

2. Are you speaking as yourself, or for all the cousins?

Decide before you write, because it changes every pronoun in the speech. Speaking for the cousins is often the right call when there are a lot of you and nobody can face five minutes alone, and it gives you permission to be shorter.

• "I am speaking for the cousins. There are eleven of us, and we agreed this morning that none of us could get through five minutes."
• "The cousins asked me to say one thing on their behalf."
• "I am going to speak for myself, because the rest of them knew a different side of him and they can tell you about that later."

If you are speaking for a group, ask each of them for one sentence and use two of them. Do not try to use eleven.

3. What do you do with the years you missed?

Say the gap in one plain sentence and then move on. Reaching for it later, or pretending it was not there, are the two things that make a eulogy sound false. One honest line early buys you the rest of the speech.

• "Then we grew up, and the honest version is that we drifted."
• "For about fifteen years we saw each other at weddings and funerals, and we texted on birthdays."
• "I cannot tell you what he was like at work, or what he was like at home on a Tuesday."
• "There are people in this room who knew her far better than I did, and I am not going to pretend otherwise."

Then give the gap a meaning, which is usually something about them rather than about you: he never kept score, she picked up like nothing had happened, he always called first. If the distance was a real fall-out rather than ordinary drift, that is a different speech and there is a fuller version of it in eulogy for someone you were estranged from. If you barely knew them at all, the interview questions in how to write a eulogy for someone you didn't know well will get you material in an afternoon.

4. How much of the family do you name?

Name the people who are losing the most, and stop there. For a cousin that usually means their partner, their children and their parents, which is often your own aunt or uncle. Four names is plenty and a list of twenty turns the speech into a roll call.

• "To Karen, and to Joe and Ellen: he talked about you constantly."
• "Sam and Lucy, your mother was proud of you in a way that had nothing to do with grades or jobs."
• "Aunt Maeve is ninety one and could not travel today, and she asked me to read something."

If their parents are in the room, one sentence to them matters more than anything else you will say. Keep it short and look at them.

5. How long, and who else is speaking?

Ask the funeral director how many people are speaking before you decide the length. Three to four minutes is right for a cousin when two or three people speak, which is 400 to 600 words read aloud at a normal pace. Ninety seconds is right when six people are speaking, and nobody will think less of you for it.

A 420 word draft, broken into a budget you can write against:

• Who you are and how you are related: 40 words
• The era you are speaking about: 120 words
• One story told properly, with the details in it: 150 words
• What they were like with the family: 80 words
• The last line: 30 words

Read it out loud with a stopwatch rather than counting on the number. Most people read a little faster than they think when they are nervous. There is more on timing in how long should a eulogy be.

6. What is the last line?

Write the last line before you write the middle. It is the only sentence you have to deliver perfectly, and knowing where you are heading makes everything before it easier to cut. For a cousin, the strongest endings usually return to the shared childhood rather than summing up a character.

• "I am going to keep going to Dunmore in July, because that is where he is for me."
• "You went first at everything. You have gone first at this too. Thank you for telling us what it is like."
• "I got most of my character from watching you. I will take it from here."
• "On the evidence I had, that was all of you. It seems it was."

Four Complete Eulogies for a Cousin

Each one is a full speech, written to be read as it stands. Take the one whose situation matches yours and change the names, the places and the stories. The shape is the part you are borrowing.

1. The cousin you grew up with and then saw twice a year (about 3 minutes)

My name is Dan. Michael was my cousin. Our mothers were sisters, which means we did not choose each other. We were handed to each other every July at our grandparents' house in Dunmore, and that turned out to be the luckiest accident of my childhood.

For about nine years we were inseparable for one month out of twelve. We built a raft out of a pallet and two oil drums and sank it on the first voyage. We got in trouble for the raft. We got in trouble for most things. Michael was the one who did the talking when we got caught, because he could make an adult laugh in the middle of being angry.

Then we grew up, and the honest version is that we drifted. I moved for work. He stayed near his parents. For about fifteen years we saw each other at weddings and funerals, and we texted on birthdays, and once a year one of us would call and we would talk for two hours like nothing had happened.

I want to say something about those two hour phone calls, because I think they were the real measure of him. He never once made me feel bad for the gap. He never kept score. He would pick up and say, "There he is," like I had just walked back in from the garden. Fifteen years of not trying very hard on my part, and he never held a minute of it against me.

He was better at family than I am. He drove his aunt to her appointments. He knew which of us was having a hard year. He turned up at the hospital in Scranton at six in the morning when my father was sick, and he sat there all day reading a magazine and saying nothing useful, which was exactly the right thing.

Michael, I did not know we were running out of July. If I had, I would have called more and said less.

To Karen, and to Joe and Ellen: he talked about you constantly, and he was proud of you in a plain and unembarrassed way that most people cannot manage.

I am going to miss the phone calls. I am going to miss being told there he is. And I am going to keep going to Dunmore in July, because that is where he is for me, eleven years old and standing in the water next to a sinking raft, absolutely certain that the second one will float.

2. Speaking for all the cousins, when nobody can manage five minutes (about 90 seconds)

I am Priya, and I am speaking for the cousins. There are eleven of us, and we agreed this morning that none of us could get through five minutes, so you are getting two from me instead.

Anil was the oldest. That meant he went first at everything, and he came back and told us what it was like. He told us what secondary school was like, and what a job interview was like, and what it was like to have a baby, two months before my own daughter was born. He never dressed it up. He would say, "It is hard, and you will be fine," and because it came from him we believed both halves.

The eleven of us are scattered across three countries now and we are not good at keeping in touch. Anil was. He was the one who started the group chat. He was the one who remembered that my mother had surgery. When one of us had bad news he was the first to call, every time, without anybody organising it.

So the cousins asked me to say one thing on their behalf. We know what he did. We know he held this family together across three time zones with nothing but his own effort, and that most of us only understood that this week.

Anil, you went first at everything. You have gone first at this too. Thank you for telling us what it is like.

3. The cousin who was really a sibling (about 3 minutes)

Good afternoon. My name is Rachel, and Theresa was my cousin, though we never once used that word for each other. Our families shared a house on Mill Street for six years when we were small, and after that we lived four doors apart, and she was simply my sister with a different surname.

We were born eight weeks apart. We learned to swim in the same lesson. We had the same haircut until we were nine, which was not a decision either of us made. We failed the same driving test with the same instructor on consecutive Tuesdays.

Here is the thing about growing up beside someone like that. You do not have a story about the day you became close. There is no beginning to point at. She is just in every memory I have, in the background of photographs I did not know she was in.

Theresa was stubborn. I am allowed to say it, because she said it about herself first. When she decided something was unfair she became extremely boring about it, in the most effective possible way. She wrote letters. She turned up at offices. She got her neighbour's bins collected after fourteen months of nobody collecting them, and she framed the apology letter and hung it in her downstairs toilet.

She was not sentimental and she would be uncomfortable with a long speech, so I will say the two things she would allow.

The first is that she was a good mother, and she knew she was, and she did not need anyone to tell her. Sam and Lucy, your mother was proud of you in a way that had nothing to do with grades or jobs. She liked you as people. That is rarer than it sounds.

The second is that she was the person I called first. Good news, bad news, nothing news. For thirty eight years she was the first number. I am going to have to learn to call somebody else, and I resent it, and she would find that very funny.

There is a photograph on the table at the back of the room. We are about seven, on the step outside the Mill Street house, in the matching haircuts, and she has her arm out in front of me because somebody was coming up the path and she had decided it was her job to deal with them. That was the arrangement for thirty eight years and I never once asked for it.

Theresa, we had the same haircut, the same driving instructor and the same grandmother. I got most of my character from watching you. I will take it from here.

4. The cousin you only ever met at family gatherings (about 2 minutes)

My name is Tom. Bernard was my cousin on my father's side, and I want to be honest with you about what I can and cannot tell you, because there are people in this room who knew him far better than I did.

I saw Bernard perhaps thirty times in my life. Christmases at my grandmother's until she died, then weddings, then funerals. I cannot tell you what he was like at work, or what he was like at home on a Tuesday.

What I can tell you is what he was like in a room full of family, which is not nothing. He always found the person standing on their own. Every single time. At my sister's wedding he spent the best part of an hour with my wife's father, who had lost his wife that spring and knew nobody there, and the two of them talked about fishing, and my father in law brought it up for years afterwards.

I asked his daughters this week what I should say. They said he was the same at home. They said he could not walk past somebody who was struggling, that it made him slow to get anywhere, and that it drove them mad as children and that they understand it now.

I am also reading something for my aunt Maeve, who is ninety one and could not travel today. She wanted you to know this: "Bernard was the only one of my nephews who wrote letters. Proper letters, with the weather in them. I have kept all of them, and I would like them to go to his girls."

Bernard, I only ever met you in your good clothes, at parties, being kind to strangers. On the evidence I had, that was all of you. It seems it was.

Where to Find Material When Most of What You Have Is Childhood

Ask three people one question each, and ask about objects rather than qualities. "What was he like?" gets you adjectives nobody can picture. "What did he always have in his car?" gets you a speech.

Questions that work on a cousin's family, in a phone call that takes ten minutes:

• "What did he do on a Sunday?"
• "What was the last thing that made her laugh properly?"
• "What did he always say when he answered the phone?"
• "What was in the glovebox?"
• "Who did he help that nobody knows about?"

If the phone calls are more than you can face this week, a few questions about them will get you a first draft to react to, and you can see it before paying anything.

Your own childhood memories are worth more than you think, because you are the only person in the room who has them. The adult in the coffin was known by their partner, their children and their colleagues. The eleven year old was known by you. Nobody else can stand up and describe them at eleven, and that is the thing you are bringing that no other speaker can.

When Several Cousins Want to Say Something

Agree who is speaking before the day, and agree who gets which era. Two cousins speaking about the same summer holiday is the most common failure in a family service, and it is avoidable with one phone call.

A split that works: the oldest cousin takes the childhood, somebody who stayed in touch takes the adult years, and the shortest speaker goes last. If there are more than three of you, one person reads one sentence from each of the others. If you would rather not speak at all, you can say so, and sending a paragraph for somebody else to read is a complete contribution. Nobody counts.

Getting Through It on the Day

Print it in 14 or 16 point, double spaced, one side per page, and number the pages. Mark the two places where you expect to struggle and write "slow" in the margin. Take a bottle of water up with you and put it down where you can reach it.

If you break down, stop and breathe and look at the page. The room is not waiting impatiently, it is waiting with you, and a pause of fifteen seconds feels like a minute to you and like nothing to them. Give a copy to one other person before the service and tell them they are the backup reader. Most people never need them. Everybody who has one speaks more freely for knowing they are there.

Frequently Asked Questions

What should I say in a funeral speech for my cousin?

Say who you are, how you are related, and which years of their life you are speaking about. Then tell one story with real details in it, say one true thing about how they treated the family, and name the people losing the most. That is a complete three minute speech and it does not need anything else.

How do you write a eulogy for a cousin who died?

Pick the era you actually saw them in, write the last line first, then fill in roughly 400 words between the two. Cousins are hard to write about because the childhood material is strong and the adult material is thin, so choose one and commit to it rather than trying to cover a whole life from the outside.

What is a good memorial message to write for a cousin who died?

One specific memory beats any general sentiment. "I still think about the raft we sank in 1994" says more than "you will be deeply missed." If you are writing in a card or posting something short, name one thing only the two of you shared, then say plainly that you will miss them.

What is the best opening line for a eulogy?

The most reliable opening is your name, your relationship and one sentence that places you: "I am Dan, Michael's cousin, and we spent every July of our childhood at the same house." It takes four seconds, it tells the room how to hear everything after it, and it gives your voice somewhere to settle before the hard part. There are more options in how to start a eulogy.

How long should a eulogy for a cousin be?

Three to four minutes, which is 400 to 600 words read aloud. Go shorter, to about 200 words, if four or more people are speaking. A cousin's eulogy is usually not the main speech of the service, and a tight three minutes is remembered better than a loose eight.

Is it strange to speak at a cousin's funeral when you were not close recently?

No, and it is common. Families ask cousins to speak precisely because they hold the childhood, which the partner and the children were not there for. Say the gap in one sentence near the start, then speak with authority about the part you did see.

Before You Start Writing

Pick the era. Write the last line. Then put 400 words between them and read it out loud once, standing up.

If the page is still blank in an hour, answering a few questions about them will at least give you a draft to argue with, and the preview is free. Either way, the words will come from you. You are the one who was there in July.