Your Obit

by Barbara Bartel

I wrote your obituary today. I’ll read it to you later. Other than that, my morning was uneventful. Did you know there’s an actual formula to writing an obituary? I’d never noticed before reading a handful in the newspaper so I’d know what to write in yours. I think most people only read the entire obit of relatives and friends. Otherwise they read the name, date of birth (to know the real age of the deceased), check for the cause of death to make sure it’s nothing they personally are afflicted with, then scan down to the time of the services. That’s what I usually do. Who cares if someone was a member of the Daughters of Isabella, taught piano, or loved to knit? What people want to know is which brothers and sisters are still alive, who they married, where they live now and what funeral home or church to send flowers or cards. Most folks know where to bring a casserole.

You’ll have to pick a photo to run beside your obit. Please don’t defer this chore to me. Just don’t choose your graduation picture. Remember your mom insisted on giving you a Toni’s Home Permanent with those tight pink hair curlers the night before? I shouldn’t laugh but all the girls in our class thought it was so bold of you to wear a hat for your photo shoot. They called you a Feminist. A woman’s libber. A rebel. Here your blond natural waves had been fried to brittle clumps. You smelled like ammonia for weeks! I hope you pick a photo of you now or very recent. One that captures the crow’s feet and laugh lines you earned.

Oh, in the opening line I wasn’t sure how to handle the God issue. I know you spent most of your adult life searching for meaning and with your scientific mind set could not “believe” as they say. All the redundant phrases like “meet her savior”, “joined the Lord” or “went home to Jesus” would be insulting to your intellect. I don’t like the fragment “passed away”. That sounds so trivial. Cars pass. Clouds pass. Gas passes. Also, it implies you went some place. We’d had the ‘where do you go when you die’ conversation throughout our life together. There was never a conclusion we agreed upon.

So I made a list of ways to describe your, uh, exit, departure, expiration, but none of them fit. I decided to not sugarcoat the fact. I wrote that you died, plain and simple. I can add the date later, when I know. I didn’t include your middle name; you hated the aunt you were named after, how when you were little she made you wash your hands before you could play her piano, an upright, for crying out loud.

Knowing how you feel about your father, I left him out of the second paragraph. Wrote you were the daughter of Genevieve Starling, life-long resident of Summit County. Why mention the asshole that molested you as a child and screwed up your entire life? Thank goodness you won’t have to be buried next to him.

You’re going to have to tell me if you want both your brothers listed. I know that the oldest one is only a half-brother (of a different mother, as the kids say today) but he was always the nicest to you, right? He helped you move several times; you kept in touch over the years. I’m not including Davy. Let him rot. Any brother who steals his sister’s car to use when he robs a gas station should automatically not be included in anyone’s obit. I figure your mom is going to read this and why cause her more heartache. She’ll be dealing with your death and shouldn’t have to be reminded that her bad blood son is still in the state pen. Mentioned your sister since she is respectable but I only listed her most current husband.

If people want to know the entire list of husbands they can look them up at the courthouse. Who cares anyway? Some of those guys she married were very good men. We all know she is a nut case. But I put her in because you guys always had a way of forgiving each other and letting go of the past. I listed her kids with all their last names, too. Her kids are her best work, don’t you think? They haven’t hounded us for any of your tools or other possessions like some of the other insensitive family vultures.

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