The Mortician's Memory
"Funeral director Estelle has prepared bodies for forty years. When a grieving widower returns to plan his own future services, she discovers death teaches us how to live."
Death is my business.
Forty years preparing bodies, comforting families, standing where grief lives. I'm Estelle—sixty-two, third-generation funeral director, guardian of final passages.
"I'd like to pre-plan my services."
The man looks familiar. Marcus Webb—I buried his wife three months ago.
"That's very forward-thinking, Mr. Webb."
"I want everything handled." His voice is steady. "So no one else has to carry what I carried."
Pre-planning is routine.
But Marcus visits weekly, adding details, asking questions that have nothing to do with death.
"How do you do this?" he asks one afternoon.
"Do what?"
"Stand in grief every day and still seem peaceful."
"Because I see life's value." I set down my pen. "Nothing teaches appreciation like endings."
The visits continue.
Long past anything service-related, becoming conversation, companionship.
"I should stop bothering you," he says.
"You're not bothering me."
"What am I doing, then?"
"Making me feel seen." The admission surprises us both. "Most people look through me. You look at me."
"I see you, Estelle."
His hand covers mine on the desk.
"I see a woman who carries impossible weight with grace. Who stands in the worst moments and makes them bearable."
"It's just my job—"
"It's ministry." He moves closer. "And I want to learn from you. More than just planning."
The kiss happens in my office.
Where I've held grieving hands, his mouth finds mine—living, wanting.
"This is—"
"Life." He pulls back slightly. "You taught me to value it. Now let me live it with you."
My house behind the funeral home is mine.
Separate from death, decorated with living color.
"You're full of surprises," Marcus says.
"Dead all day, alive all night." I smile. "Balance keeps me sane."
"Then let me add to the living side." He pulls me close. "Show me your aliveness, Estelle."
He undresses me slowly.
"No one's touched you like this in years," he guesses.
"No one's wanted to."
"Then they were fools." His mouth finds my neck. "You're more alive than anyone I know."
His hands celebrate.
Finding where life concentrates—pulse points, warmth, the places that prove existence.
"Marcus—"
"I need to feel this." He settles between my thighs. "I need to feel you living."
When he enters me, we're both resurrected.
"So good," he groans.
"More. Make me feel every moment."
"Every moment we have."
Afterward, in my living arms, he cries.
"I didn't think I could feel anything again."
"Grief is temporary." I hold him. "Life insists."
"So do you." He wipes his tears. "Stay with me, Estelle. Marry me. Let's live what time we have."
"Marcus—"
"You understand endings. Help me understand beginnings." He kisses my forehead. "A new one. With you."
The wedding is in the funeral home chapel.
Where ends become starts, where we've both seen truth.
"To the woman who taught me death has purpose," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who reminded me why life matters," I counter.
We kiss while eternity watches.
Some morticians see death.
Some see through it.
And some discover that the best memorials are lives fully lived with someone who knows how precious time is.
Life chosen.
Love embraced.
Forever present.