Funeral Home Descriptive Writing

When we arrived at the house, I stood there for about five seconds before knocking on the door. They didn’t answer at first, so I knocked again, harder, and then saw the handle start to move. My stomach filled with butterflies as I watched the door slowly open. The face that greeted was one of a two year old, and as I looked up I saw her father standing over her.

As soon as my eyes woke up to the bitter cold of the night and stars covered by black blanket of clouds, I knew that this was it. I had tried to prepare myself that day, but I was at school when it happened. The moment the intercom came over the classroom, “Hailey Wooldridge needs to come the office, her mom is here to check her out,” my heart stopped. I was able to make it to the office without losing my composure, but as soon as my eyes met my mom standing there with tears in hers I lost it. Right there standing in the school office, the food gates of heaven opened up in my eyes and I could not stop the rivers from flowing. My best friend since kindergarten had died. All the planning of moving in together when we went to college was down the drain. The late nights of watching horribly filmed scary movies was done. My heart was broken, and the pieces are still not taped together properly. Two days later was her funeral. Her mother had asked me to say a couple of words about her during the service, but the thought of standing next to her lifeless body talking about her and not to her made everything seem surreal. By the power of prayer and numerous amounts of tears, I stood up from my seat and walked lifelessly to the podium that viewed hundreds of people waiting to see what I had to say. I do not know how I got through that speech without hysterically crying, but somehow, I talked like I was having a conversation with Serra once again. In front of me, I

In the crowd was a very familiar face. It was my God Mother with a gentle smile. Tears started to run down my face because it was unbelievable that she was in the audience. It was impossible for her to be there because she passed away when I had turned thirteen. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then I opened them. She was gone. Seeing her that night of my performance reminded me what I had to do.

I walked to the room at the end of the hall that led to the attic. I slowly placed my foot on the first step, calling out for Nancy. When I finally reached the top, I saw a long haired woman standing by the window with her backed turned to me. "Chelsea? What the hell are you doing here?" She was holding an axe in her hand and I started backing up, with no intention on going any further. She turned around and to my surprise, it was not Chelsea at all, but Nancy. She had blood rolling down her forehead, from the scalp that was ripped from Chelsea's head. "Oh, Dear," she said. "You gave me quite a fright." She started walked toward me. "What do you think?" She asked, running her fingers through the

It was a late summer afternoon in Crenshaw Los Angles. The sun is setting and I was sitting at the stairs of the two apartment building I lived at. I was waiting for my dad to return from work. Down in the street gust of wind blew torn paper into spirals. The sun was shining through the bright blue empty sky making it hard to see through the distance as the light shines through my eyes. My father was walking towards me with the harsh light of the sun outlining his body. As my father began to come closer to me the sun began to set even more. Light fading away as soon as my father stood in front of me. As he stood in front of me I was able to smell the fresh paint that was stained on his pants all the way up to his neck. He then squats down in

Warily, I walked over to where my father was standing right outside the school, waiting for Cole and I, when I saw he had shades on, I knew for sure that something was wrong, due to the fact he never wore shades. When we were to the pick-up my whole family was in there. Noticing, when I jumped in the pick-up, my mother also had shades on. Anxiously, I sat there attentively for the longest second of my life, then my father stammered to us that grandfather had passed away. Countless emotions were running through me, overwhelmed; I didn’t know what to think, raving; owing to they said he was going to be adequate, grieving; due to I didn’t get to talk t6o my grandfather before he passed

It’s so still here, so quiet, so peaceful. I walked past rows of gravestones as I finally approached the site where my relatives lay. To many, visiting their relatives in a cemetery can be a sad experience; I however, was happy for them, because they still gathered together as they had before. I smiled as I remembered those times, when I was but a child and I could just barely see over the table. I could hear their talking and laughter again. How warm and familiar it all was! I remembered how laughter would erupt after my father told a good joke – he was always telling jokes. I could even smell the feast my mother and aunts would cook for us, and could almost feel them slapping my hand as I tried to sneak a piece of turkey before the meal. I remembered sitting at the smaller table with my cousins and siblings, feeling as if I were too old to sit at the kid's table. I remembered feeling left out, as if the adults kept some kind of grown-up secret from me. That same feeling I felt again, as I stood there seeing them all lying as they used to sit, in those two long rows. Although I had grown to be an adult, they still seemed to keep some secret from me, one that I was not to know of yet, one that I am not ready yet to

A funeral director is of best help to the relatives and friends of a deceased person, who assists in preparing the body, planning transport of the body to burial/cremation venue and in planning the ceremony. They must possess different positive traits like people management and administration skills, composure and willingness to work long, odd hours. He or she is also available on call 24 hours a day and 365 days a year.

The day was gloomy and a bit chilly−a perfect day for a funeral if that was possible−as she sat on the folding chair staring at the bronze casket a few feet from her. Ruth recalled while growing up her grandfather always treated her special and they shared many good times. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she wanted to smile knowing shortly her grandfather would be laid to rest beside the love of his life, her grandmother. Since his heart attack she had visited him daily at the Mountaineer Nursing Home. He told her stories about the ghost on Putney Mountain, the loud screams in the day and the lights at night. Sometimes he talked about the secrets of Howardsville and promised one day he would divulge them to her. However, he passed away before

I walked into the room on New Year’s Day and felt a sudden twinge of fear. My eyes already hurt from the tears I had shed and those tears would not stop even then the last viewing before we had to leave. She lay quietly on the bed with her face as void of emotion as a sheet of paper without the writing. Slowly, I approached the cold lifeless form that was once my mother and gave her a goodbye kiss.

Although I hated to see her go, I knew that I would never branch out and meet new people with my mother present. As we said goodbye, the tears swelled up in her eyes and it seemed like the harder she tried to prevent the tears from falling; the faster they streamed down her cheek. Eventually my mom got back into her car and began the long trip home. There I was, alone in the middle of the street outside of my dorm. I walked back into Cowden, up the flight of stairs and into my dorm room in a trance.

Today was funeral day. My mom’s funeral. It was a dark October thursday, the clouds were brewing a storm. A slight breeze disturbed my neck. My uncomfortable suit sleeves bellowed in the cold breeze.. I hadn’t felt any emotions since the day of her death, which was weeks ago, almost as if my emotion is grey. It was warm then, as my mind was too. Nowadays, up until today, my mind has been a dark fog, as if my mind was released into the sky, darkening everyone’s day, arriving at my mom’s funeral or just to cuddle up with their friends and family in front of a warm crackling fire, telling the stories of their childhood and how times were better. Not me, my dad usually ignored me and he only worked on managing my mom’s fortune. Yeah. My mom’s

I have always been fascinated by the human body and how it works, even when life no longer exists within it. I, myself have never had to deal with the death of a loved one, but I have been to my fair share of funerals. On many occasions, I have had to prepare myself for what lies beneath the doors of the neatly polished caskets. I remember the very first time I had to go to a funeral, I was ten years old and a very good family friend of ours had passed away. I had dressed in my very best that day, my family and I approached the closed doors of the visitation room. Nothing had prepared me for what was in store for me beyond those doors. Sobs and cries flooded through the slow opening doors, with a wave of cold air that showered over me. Everyone was dressed in nicely pressed suits and straight black dresses, and there between the passing crowds of people I could see it, the freshly polished wood casket. My mother turned to me and stated “You can sit in the car with your brother if you want, you don’t have to see this if you don’t want to.” I looked deep into her tear-filled eyes and blinked rapidly. After considering the option, she had given me I relied slowly “It’s okay, I can handle this. I want to say goodbye too.” I approached the casket cautiously with the fear of the unknowing. Once I reached the side of the casket I peered down at my beloved elder, but I wasn’t frightened. I knew she was no longer living because of the slight discoloration to her skin, but she looked so happy. Her makeup was done so flawlessly and she was dressed in her Sunday best with her arms across her stomach clutching a bouquet of flowers which filled the surrounding area. She was so beautiful, I then glanced back at everyone in the area, some sitting and some standing off to the side all of them had the same look on their faces. They all looked so pained, I just could not understand why. She was the lucky one she was able to

now. The only thing I can do now is pray and hope. To pray that I will

In Letter to a Funeral Parlor we read a letter written to a sir from someone who does not sign their last name. They only close the letter with yours sincerely. This paper will cover: the the content of the story, the argument of the narrator, as well what it reveals about the narrator and her family's grief. advantages of framing the story in this manner.