She added: He died at home, drinking bad coffee and telling a joke about a priest and a duck.
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… declue funeral home obits
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. She added: He died at home, drinking bad
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. She knew the rhythms: Beloved husband of… passed
She typed slowly: Henry Charles Declue, 78, of Willow Creek, passed away April 12…
Margaret stood on the porch, reading the crowd’s tribute. A young man she didn’t recognize handed her a coffee—black, two sugars. “Henry said you forget to eat.”
When she finished, the obituary was 1,400 words. Far too long for the Willow Creek Gazette . But she printed it anyway, and Sarah taped it to the funeral home’s front door.