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. 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. By morning, people had added their own postscripts in pen