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

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.

Henry Declue, her husband of fifty-two years, had died that morning. Same heart that had carried her over every threshold, stopped mid-sentence while buttering toast.

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

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