Last night I had to write my first obituary, and it was for someone still living. See, my grandfather, Charles D. Southard, has always wanted to see what I would say about him.

It’s not like it was initially a morbid request or fascination (my grandfather is not known for wearing all black all the time if that is what you are thinking, Goth Senior Citizen), I’m sure it began as a real point of curiosity built out of a joke. He wanted to see my reaction to the request, and I’m sure it was funny. The problem is that this desire has stuck with him, and for twenty years, I would hear about this from time to time; if anything this interest has grown into something more, both for him and for myself.

I admit I avoided doing it. I’m not a superstitious man, I didn’t think he would…