Obituary Examples for a Friend

Friends write obituaries more often than people think: when someone had no family nearby, when the family is too broken to, or simply because the friend is the one who knew them. It is an honour and an odd position, so this guide starts with what to check, then gives the examples. Names and towns are invented.

Check first

• Who else is writing one. If a sibling or a child is, yours is the eulogy or the memorial-page tribute, not the newspaper notice. Ask.
• The facts. Full legal name, date of birth, where they were born, the family list. Friends often know the person and not the paperwork. A cousin or the funeral home can confirm.
• What they would not want said. A friend knows the stories. The obituary is not the place for the ones they told you in confidence.
• Where to send gifts. If there is no family wish, choose something they cared about, and say it was your choice.

A best friend (about 200 words)

Rebecca "Becca" Lindstrom, 58, of Minneapolis, died on September 6, 2026, after a brief illness. This is written by her friend of forty years, at her request, because she said her sister would make it too nice.

Becca was a public defender for thirty years in Hennepin County, where she represented several thousand people that nobody else would, and won more than she should have. She was loud in court and louder at dinner. She had opinions about your haircut, your boyfriend and the Vikings' offensive line, and she was right about at least two of them. She never married, which she described as a series of excellent decisions, and she was godmother, in practice if not in church, to about eleven children.

She cooked for a crowd every Sunday for thirty years, and if you were alone on a holiday you were at her table, whether or not she knew you well. She is survived by her sister, Anna; her nieces, Sara and Kate; and the Sunday table. A celebration of her life will be held Saturday, September 13, at 3:00 p.m. at the Minneapolis Public Library, Central. Come hungry. We are doing the Sunday dinner one more time.

A friend who lived alone

When there is no family, the obituary is the only record, and the friend writing it is the only witness. Write more, not less.

Walter Emil Novak, 81, of Cleveland, died on September 3, 2026, at home. He had no surviving family, and this is written by his neighbours on Bridge Avenue, who were his family for the last twenty years whether he liked it or not.

Walt was born in Cleveland in 1945, served in the Army, and worked forty years as a machinist at Lincoln Electric. His wife, Dorothy, died in 2004. He never remarried and never, as far as anyone knew, missed a day of feeding the birds at 6 a.m. He shovelled every walk on the block before anyone was awake, would not take money for it, and fixed lawnmowers in his garage for a beer and a conversation. He knew every child on the street by name and their dogs by reputation. He kept Dorothy's garden exactly as she left it.

He is survived by Bridge Avenue. A gathering will be held Saturday, September 13, at 11:00 a.m. at St. Wendelin Church, followed by coffee at the Novak house, where the birds will be fed at 6 a.m. by a rota of neighbours for as long as it takes.

A colleague

Priya Raman, 45, of Austin, died on September 10, 2026, unexpectedly. Her colleagues at Cedar Systems write this with her family's blessing.

Priya joined Cedar in 2011 as its fourth engineer and was, by the time of her death, the person every one of two hundred people went to when something was truly broken. She did not have a title that explained this. She reviewed code at midnight, brought samosas on Mondays, mentored every intern who ever walked in, and was the reason at least a dozen of them stayed in the field. She ran marathons, slowly, on purpose, so she could talk the whole way.

She is survived by her husband, Arjun; her daughter, Maya; her parents in Chennai; and a company that does not know how to run without her. A memorial will be held Friday, September 19, at 4:00 p.m. at the Cedar offices, and everyone she ever helped is welcome, which is everyone.

A friend from long ago

James "Jimmy" Aldridge, 71, of Tulsa, died on September 8, 2026. We were his friends from Will Rogers High School, class of 1973, and we write this because his family asked us to tell the part they did not see.

Jimmy was the drummer. He was the one with the car, the one who knew a guy, the one who got us into the show and out of the parking lot. He drove a truck for thirty-five years and never lost touch with a single one of us; the reunion was at his house every five years because he was the only one who could find everybody. He was married to Linda for forty-six years and was the father of three, and he was still the drummer, on the porch, every Friday.

He is survived by Linda; his children, Jason, Amy and Chris; seven grandchildren; and the class of '73. Services Saturday at 2:00 p.m. at Fitzgerald Funeral Home. Bring a story from 1972. Linda has heard them; she wants to hear them again.

Your place in it

Say who you are. "Written by her friend of forty years" or "by his neighbours on Bridge Avenue" tells the reader why the obituary sounds the way it does, and it is the truth. The people who loved someone are their survivors, whatever the paperwork says.