She added: He died at home, drinking bad coffee and telling a joke about a priest and a duck.
Margaret adjusted her glasses. “Who else knows him?” 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
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. Neighbors, old veterans Henry played poker with, the