Writing the Obituary

When I think of Dad, I think of quiet mornings and the smells of coffee and newspaper. I think of his morning glass of milk and his plush terry-cloth robe. I think of the way he sometimes had black smudges on his nose as the newsprint ink grabbed at his fingertips and settled upon the soft things he touched. I think of other things, too, but these are the things I think of first.

I’m trying to write Dad’s obituary today. I know that this particular piece of writing is not for me or for the people who know me. It’s for them—all the people who cared about Dad. I want them to feel included, but I don’t know how to start. How far back do I go? What do I concentrate on? When will I stop waking up, convinced he’s still here?

And so I close my eyes and breathe.

And then I begin.


Published by

e lewis

I'm a bibliophile with a love of social justice theory living in the Pacific North West trying to figure life out.

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