Sarah laughed through her nose. “He loved that stupid joke.”

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…

The words felt like cardboard. She deleted passed away and wrote died . Henry hated euphemisms. Just say it, Margie. Dead is dead. Then tell ‘em about the fishing.

“Mom. You don’t have to write it yourself.”

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.”

But tonight, the cursor blinked on a blank screen, and for the first time, the name in her notes was her own.

She added: He died at home, drinking bad coffee and telling a joke about a priest and a duck.

Here’s a short story inspired by the phrase "Declue Funeral Home Obits."