My wife wasn’t one for tradition. So I’m not writing an obit.
She’d rather you write a note ... to your husband, your wife, your son or daughter, your mother or father. Not a text. Not an email. A note. On paper.
In lieu of a wedding gown she wore blue jeans, a white blouse and a pullover sweater. I had on a corduroy jacket. There had been no invitations or RSVPs. No rented hall. No church. In lieu of a minister, we had a mayor. She did not take my name. She had one of her own.
Unsuspecting friends had been invited to our apartment for pizza and beer. In lieu of a reception, there was a party.
That was her way.
Her wishes were clear. Her instructions unambiguous.
In lieu of anything formal, there is casual. Always.
Even now. Especially now.
In lieu of sympathy cards
So there have been no announcements, no invitations or RSVPs. No rented hall. No church.
No funeral home.
In lieu of a cemetery, there is the desert.
In lieu of a procession, walk the dog. In lieu of a headstone, there are river rocks or boulders or hollowed-out sandstone.
In lieu of flowers, there are cacti. In lieu of sympathy cards she would suggest you write a note … to your husband, your wife, your son or daughter, your mother or father. Not a text. Not an email. A note. On paper. With a pen. Then put it in an envelope and write the address on the front, and attach a stamp to the upper right-hand corner, and mail it.
In lieu of speed and convenience, there is reflection and permanence.
In lieu of dropping off a casserole, order a pizza and beer, then invite unsuspecting friends to your place.
In lieu of a eulogy, read a short story. Something by Alice Munro or Eudora Welty. (“Powerhouse,” maybe, with that line she loved: “… and they are all down the first note like a waterfall.”)
In lieu of sadness, celebrate. Though not too much. A glass of wine. Maybe two. A piece of blueberry pie. A movie. A long drive. A kiss. Maybe more than one.
In lieu of an obituary, this.
She would be better at this
Her wishes were clear. Her instructions unambiguous.
In lieu of anything formal, there is casual.
Always.
Even now. Especially now.
In lieu of mourning, there should be reminiscing.
In lieu of crying, there should be laughing. Although they often seem to go together – the laughing, the crying, the reminiscing.
She would be better at this.
She was better at following instructions. She was better at organization, at implementation, at grammar, at logic, at spelling and punctuation and vocabulary. At clarity.
At life.
Her wishes were clear. Her instructions unambiguous. But my thoughts are foggy. My execution disheveled. I’ve looked through a hefty book on English language usage, and searched the dictionary, and consulted a thesaurus, but I can find no word in lieu of widower.