Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

Obituary for a Life Lived in Three Lines (and Occasionally Five Strings)

It is with a mixture of sorrow, admiration, and a lingering sense that he might still be editing this sentence somewhere that we announce the passing of a man who approached life as if it were a draft—always revisable, occasionally mysterious, and best appreciated in small, well-placed moments. He departed this world much as he lived in it: mid-thought, gently observing, and quietly convinced there was a better way to phrase it.

In quieter moments—though they were rarely as quiet as intended—he was a devoted banjo player. This was not a phase, nor a cry for help, though some suspected both. He approached the banjo with a kind of earnest enthusiasm usually reserved for people who say things like “just one more verse” and mean it. Neighbors developed a complicated relationship with his music, describing it as “persistent,” “philosophically committed,” and “definitely happening again tomorrow.”

He was also a devoted practitioner of haiku poetry, drawn to its quiet precision and its ability to say just enough while leaving the rest to the reader—and occasionally to the weather. He wandered through seasons and small moments with a notebook in hand, pausing for birds, shadows, and the kind of silence most people accidentally talk over.

His work revealed a man who noticed things others missed: the hesitation of a breeze, the argument between light and leaf, the way memory arrives without knocking. Those who read his poems often found themselves slowing down, unsure whether they were understanding him or being gently out-observed.

He is survived by his patient and understanding wife from El Salvador, a woman of remarkable grace who somehow managed to love a man who could spend twenty minutes contemplating a single line and then celebrate the insight with an enthusiastic banjo solo.

She endured drifting drafts, spontaneous readings, and the occasional moment when he would pause mid-conversation to admire a particularly committed cloud. If marriage is a balancing act, she was the steady hand that kept the entire enterprise from floating off into metaphor.

He is also survived by a scattered assortment of acquaintances, a pile of rejected poems, and a banjo and blues harmonica.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests that attendees pause and notice something you usually overlook. It’s what he would have wanted.

A memorial service will be held, followed by an informal gathering where the banjo will be played, against better advice.