obituaries
i am your epilogue, formatting your obituary for the local newspaper.
you were born in 1932, or 1946, or 1955, or 1996.
you liked christmas. you liked camping. you liked football. you had three children. you accepted a marriage proposal after three days. you loved dogs. you had a notable recipe for fudge.
i’m color-correcting your photo. you’re the size of a stamp, the kind you need to send a letter someplace far away. you’re wearing a polo shirt, or a suit, or a motorcycle helmet. you’re holding a fish. you’re waving. you’re standing beside a horse.
it's a formal portrait sometimes. it’s usually a cell phone picture of a framed photograph. i try to minimize the reflection of the flash across the glass.
your life took decades to write, but in black and white, it is two columns wide by five inches tall. it is two columns wide by seven inches tall. it is three columns wide by ten inches tall.
you’re gone, somewhere no one can say for sure, but you’re here on my monitor.
i clock out. i will go somewhere you can't know. i turn off my computer. i wait.