The Obituary - by Maq

‎‎I have decided to write my own obituary.‎Don't take this as an act of vanity. ‎We all know that if you leave these things to family members, they fill them with inaccuracies. Sentimental nonsense. Achievements that never happened. Kindness that was exaggerated for the sake of politeness and sympathy.‎My sister, for example, would probably write that I was a generous man who valued loyalty above all else.‎Which is not true.‎I valued my peace above all else.‎Until I didn't.‎But we'll get there.‎Let me start properly.‎...‎Daniel Harding, 54, passed away quietly on a Sunday morning.‎No.‎That sounds too peaceful.‎Let me try again.‎...‎Daniel Harding, 54, died on a Sunday morning in the house where he lived for thirty years.‎Better.‎People appreciate stability in a man.‎They will say I was dependable. Quiet. The sort of neighbor who waved politely and kept his lawn neat.‎‎I imagine they’d also say I was a respected member of the community, that I worked as an accountant for most of my life, that I enjoyed gardening and long walks.‎The garden part is true.‎People underestimate how calming it is to move soil from one place to another.‎Especially late at night, when the ground is soft and no one is watching and....‎No.‎That sentence should not stay.‎Let me rewrite it.‎...‎He was known by neighbors as a quiet and dependable man.‎That’s better.‎People like the word dependable.‎...‎They will also want to mention my childhood.‎Something like:‎He grew up in a small town with his younger sister, Margaret, and was known for his thoughtful nature.‎Thoughtful.‎Yes.‎I thought about things very carefully.‎I thought about Margaret when she started wearing long sleeves in July. I thought about the way she laughed a second too early at things her husband said. I thought about the Sunday dinners where Thomas sat at the head of the table and everyone pretended not to notice how quiet she had become.‎I thought about all of it.‎For a long time, thinking was all I did.‎...‎They will also note that I never married.‎This is true.‎People assumed that I was simply stubborn. That I was the bachelor type. Self-contained. Married to my work, as they say.‎That is partly true.‎The fuller truth is that I understood, at a certain age, what it meant to be responsible for someone else. What it required. What it could cost.‎I didn't trust myself to do it well anymore.‎I didn't trust myself at all, after a while.‎...‎He is survived by his sister, Margaret, and her two daughters, Clara and June.‎I like that sentence.‎I have read it several times.‎Survived.‎She survived.‎That is the thing I want on record.‎She survived him, and then she survived the years after, and then she built something good and decent for herself and her girls in a house with a small garden of her own. She grows tomatoes. She calls me on my birthday. She laughs more now than she did for a long time.‎...‎Thomas has been missing for nineteen years.‎There was a search. There were questions. Margaret told the police he had talked about leaving, that the marriage had been unhappy, that she wasn't surprised.‎She wasn't lying.‎She just didn't know the rest.‎I never told her.‎I decided, standing in my garden at two in the morning with soil on my hands and my heart beating so loudly I was certain someone would hear it, that she would never know. ‎That this would be mine to carry. ‎That if there was a price, I would pay it, and she wouldn't even know there had been a transaction.‎I paid it.‎I am still paying it.‎...‎He is remembered as a man who kept his word.‎That one I can leave in.‎...‎I have tried, in the years since, to determine whether I feel guilt.‎The honest answer is: not about Thomas.‎I feel guilt about other things. Small things, mostly. A friend I drifted away from without explanation. A phone call I didn't return. The way I sometimes looked at my own life and found it too sparse to justify the space it took up.‎That last one has gotten louder, recently.‎I have tried to turn down the volume.‎I have not been successful.‎...‎Daniel Harding is survived by his sister, Margaret, and her daughters, Clara and June, aged twenty-two and nineteen respectively, both of whom he loved without knowing how to say so.‎He kept a good lawn.‎He was, in the end, a man who did one thing right and spent the rest of his life trying to decide if it cancelled everything else out.‎He remained unsure. ‎But he did it anyway.‎...‎I told you we'd get there.‎The sun is doing something pleasant with the curtains. I notice this and think it is the kind of detail Margaret would mention, if she were here. She has always been better at noticing things than I have.‎I wonder why I'm noticing it now.‎...‎One final correction.‎The obituary should mention the manner of death.‎Some people would appreciate clarity.‎Daniel Harding, 54, died in his home on a Sunday morning.‎Yes.‎That will be true in a few minutes.‎I have already swallowed the pills.‎By the time Margaret arrives for lunch, the obituary will finally be complete and she need not worry about such things.‎...‎I would like to say I am at peace.‎But I am not sure that is the right word.‎I am at rest, perhaps.‎I have been very tired for a very long time.‎...‎Daniel Harding, 54, died in the home where he lived for most of his life.‎And this time, I didn’t have to dig the hole myself.‎

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