A Life in 22 Lines
On the language of loss and the mastery of writing obituaries
I wrote my father’s obituary this week. Twenty-two lines, 191 words, 924 characters. He died three weeks ago in Canada, the same week I was having surgery in London. His, and our story, in life and in death, like so many parent-child stories is multi-layered. Perhaps one day I will write about it, perhaps not. This is not that story, but this is about writing about a life lived before and maybe in and after death, and about the language of loss.
I have a friend from childhood who loves reading obituaries and other life announcements from our home-town newspaper. She no longer lives in the Canadian city where we grew up but will often scan the obits and announcements online, sometimes letting me know when it is about someone we both knew. I get it, it makes one feel connected to a childhood home and to people of the past when we are far away, from that place and that time. I have never found obituaries depressing, except of course when someone dies too young. Those obits are tragic and sad. But when I see a smiling woman or man, well into their eighties or beyond, I love reading about their life and hope their death was dignified and calm. My mom and I often joked about reading the Saturday obits, the long ones that tell the tales of high-school sweethearts, lives lived off the farmland, many children, strange hobbies, times spent with grand- and even great grandchildren.
Occasionally, you read about hilarious obituaries, often written by the deceased before they died. I like those too and find comfort in knowing someone had a sense of control at the end of life, or at least about what would be written after they died. Perhaps that is all we want, a sense of control in an uncontrollable world, life, and especially death.
In the documentary Obit about the New York Times obituary-writing team, one of the journalists says: "It's counterintuitive, perhaps, but obituaries have next to nothing do with death and absolutely everything to do with life." I don’t disagree but there is a heaviness to writing about the life of a loved one or personal contact as opposed to a celebrity or someone you have never met. Yes, it is about life, but it is also the end of a story. And often, you wish the story could go on.
With great sadness…delete. With heavy hearts…delete. In sadness, with sadness, what is sadness? – it took me a long time to begin writing my father’s obituary. I googled other obituaries, I googled “how to write an obit”, I googled “what to include in an obit” — all of it helped, or maybe none of it did. I asked AI for wording ideas and played around with some surprisingly beautiful phrases. In the end, I kept the obit short, including brief glimpses into who my father was, what he loved and who he left behind. I don’t think more than 22 lines were necessary for his obit, but he should have had many more lines in the narrative of his life.
Thank you for reading and take care of one another.
"I like those too and find comfort in knowing someone had a sense of control at the end of life, or at least about what would be written after they died. Perhaps that is all we want, a sense of control in an uncontrollable world, life, and especially death." Malwina... wishing you strength and resilience which you have in spades...because your ability to *see* people and life always emerges no matter what life has in store...
My sister died when I was in my early twenties and my mom asked me to write a piece to be read at her funeral. I don't remember all of it, but I remember the last part which was about her dancing into the next adventure. She followed the Grateful Dead for a time, and it was something I loved about her because it was so free-spirited and seemed so true to who she was. Later I wrote a piece, just for myself, that I titled, "A sister in ten stories." Your title reminded me of it. ❤️ Blessings to you, Malwina.