Margaret kept going, not as an obituary, but as a letter. She wrote about the time Henry refinanced the funeral home’s mortgage to buy a stray dog a $4,000 surgery. About how he sang off-key to every body he prepared, saying, “Can’t send ‘em off in silence.” About the way he held her hand at the movies even when his arthritis screamed.
The funeral home’s voicemail was already full. Neighbors, old veterans Henry played poker with, the librarian he’d driven to chemo. Margaret’s daughter, Sarah, had flown in from Seattle and now sat curled on the threadbare sofa, knitting nothing in particular. declue funeral home obits
Margaret Declue had written over two thousand obituaries. For thirty years, she’d sat at the same oak desk in the back of Declue Funeral Home, translating grief into graceful prose. She knew the rhythms: Beloved husband of… passed peacefully… surrounded by family… Margaret kept going, not as an obituary, but as a letter
By morning, people had added their own postscripts in pen. He taught me to tie a fly. He buried my stillborn son and cried with me. He gave me a job when no one else would. The funeral home’s voicemail was already full
They ended with see you soon . If you'd like, I can also write a mock "Declue Funeral Home" obituary template or a more mysterious/horror-tinged version. Just let me know.
“Mom. You don’t have to write it yourself.”
She typed slowly: Henry Charles Declue, 78, of Willow Creek, passed away April 12…