Sit with them. Write a little.

Who is writing this, and who are you to them?

Your name, and daughter, son, spouse, parent, friend. If they are writing it themselves, say so. This is not a contract. Skip if that is already obvious.

What should people call them?

The name on the story. A nickname is fine. Write it the way family says it out loud.

What is their full name, if it is different?

First, middle, last. Spell it. This is the line a newspaper would print in the first sentence.

Was there a name only family used?

The kitchen name. The one on a lunchbox. The one a spouse still uses. Skip if the first name is enough.

Was there a name from before — a maiden name, a name from another country, a name they left?

The name they were born with. The name on an old license. Skip if they have always been this name. Do not add maiden names of living people who are not them.

Where do they live now, and which cities still have their name on a mailbox?

The town they wake up in, and the ones they never really left. City and state. Do not write a house number or a street of a living person — that is how thieves work. A newspaper prints the city.

When were they born, and where?

The date if you have it, and the town. A year is enough if the day is gone, or if they do not want the full date in print. A newspaper uses this for the first sentence.

Who raised them? Name those people.

Mother, father, a grandmother, an aunt, the ones who did the raising. Write the names, not the roles only.

What were their parents' names — including a mother's name before she married, if you have it?

Newspapers ask this every time so the story can name their people. Their mother's name before she married. Skip if you do not have it. Do not add maiden names of living people who are not them.

Where did they grow up, and what did that place feel like?

The town, the house, the street, the kitchen. Was it loud? Small? A porch. A child can answer this.

Who did they grow up with — sisters, brothers, cousins in the same house?

Name the children in that house. The one they shared a room with. Skip if they grew up alone.

What is one story from when they were little that still gets told?

The story that comes out at the table. Who tells it. It can be small. Small is often the true one.

Did their people come from somewhere else? A country, a farm, a language at the table?

The place before this place. The language a grandmother used when she was mad. Skip if they have always been from here.

What language did they speak at home, if it was not only English?

A few words family still uses count. Skip if English was the whole house.

Which towns or houses still count as home?

Every place that still has a hold on them. The town. The house they mean. A river. A pew. Not a current street number.

Where did they go to school, and what did they finish?

A grade school, a high school, a trade, a degree, a certificate. The year if you have it. Skip if it does not apply.

Was there a teacher, a coach, a team, or a school story they still tell?

The person who saw them. The sport. The play. The thing they were almost not going to do.

Did they serve in the military, or wear another uniform they want named?

Branch, years. A rank only if they wanted it said. Police, fire, a nurse's pin count. Skip if they did not serve. Do not guess medals.

If they served, where, and in what years — only what they want said?

A theater, a base, a ship, a hospital. Do not guess medals. Skip if they did not serve, or do not want this in it.

What work did they do, or how did they spend their days?

A job, a farm, a classroom, the work of a house, the work of being here. What would they say if you asked at dinner.

Who did they work for, and for how long?

The company, the mill, the district, the shop. Thirty-one years in a room is a life. A number helps.

Was there a job, a craft, or a stretch of years that made them feel like themselves?

The years they would not give back. The tool they still reach for. The thing they were good at that nobody paid extra for.

What were they known for at work — the thing a coworker would say without thinking?

On time. The one who brought extra. The one who stayed. A nickname from the floor. Skip if they never had that kind of work.

Did they build a business, a farm, a practice, a shop of their own?

The name on the door. What they sold or grew or mended. Skip if they did not.

Was there an honor, a prize, a rank, or a title they actually wanted in the story?

Only what they would still want said. Leave out the ones they rolled their eyes at. Do not invent a medal or a degree.

If the work ended or changed, what did the days become?

Retirement, a new trade, staying home, getting sick, starting over. Skip if they are still in the middle of it.

Was there unpaid work that was still the work of a life — a house, a farm, a child, a parent they kept?

The work that never had a title. Raising people. Keeping a place. Skip if the paid work was the whole of it.

Who do they love?

Write the names. People first. Animals if they count. This is the list a newspaper would get wrong if you rush it.

Is there a spouse or a partner they built a life with? When did that begin?

The name, and the year if you have it. How long is a kind of proof. Skip if this is not their story.

How did they meet that person, if there is one?

The room, the town, the friend who introduced them, the shift they both worked. A scene, not a summary. Skip if there is not one.

Where did they marry, or begin, if they want that day named?

A church, a courthouse, a kitchen, a date. Skip if they do not want that day in it, or if there was not one.

Who are their children? Name them.

Each child. The order they came. Whose they are if that matters. A living obituary that says 'three children' and no names has failed — unless they asked for a number only.

If a child married or made a life with someone, who belongs in that sentence?

The sons- and daughters-in-law. The partner a child brought home. Newspapers ask this so nobody is left off the pew.

Who are the grandchildren, and the little ones after that?

Names if they want them in print. A number is enough if the list is long, or if the children are young and they want them quieter. Great-grandchildren too. Someone will count.

Do they want young children's names in print, or only that the children exist?

A newspaper will print every name you give. Young children cannot take that back. Names if they want them. A number if they want those children quieter. Skip if there are no young children.

Are there children they claimed who were not born to them?

Stepchildren. Foster. The kid next door who ate at their table. If they claimed them, the story should too. Skip if there are none.

Who else belongs — sisters, brothers, people they chose as family?

The ones who would be hurt if they were left off. In-laws they kept. A friend who became a sister. Name them.

Who already left, that this story should still name?

A parent, a spouse, a child, a friend. The year if it helps. Only if they want them in it. Skip if they do not. This is people they lost — they themselves are still here.

Is there a friend so close the story is wrong without them?

The one they called first. The one who still has a key. Skip if family is the whole of it.

Is there a faith, a church, or a quiet they keep instead?

A congregation. A hymn. A way they pray. Or a quiet. All of those are a full answer. Skip if they keep this private.

If they speak of God, what name do they use?

Only the name they say. Skip if they keep that to themselves.

If there is a congregation, what did they do there — choir, kitchen, usher, just the pew?

The work of showing up. A committee. The coffee. Skip if they did not have a church, or only sat.

What clubs, teams, unions, or tables did they belong to?

Choir, lodge, volunteer fire, a bowling night, a union card, the PTA, a book group, a VFW hall.

Where did they give their time when nobody paid them?

A hospital gift shop. Coaching. A neighbor's roof. The hours that never made a resume. Skip if they kept to their own.

If people want to give, is there a church, a cause, or a place that should receive it?

Only if they have one. A food pantry. A school. A shelter. Skip if they do not want this said. This is not a funeral plan.

What did they love to do when nobody was watching?

The garden, the kitchen, the trail, a tool, a book, a game, the chair and the window. Private joy is the true one.

What food, music, team, or place would make a stranger know it was them?

Biscuits. A hymn. A ball club. A porch. A radio station. Be specific enough that family laughs.

What did they cook, or refuse to cook, that family still talks about?

The dish. The recipe in a hymn book. The thing they would not eat. Skip if food was never the point.

What did they say, over and over, that family can still hear?

A saying. A joke. A rule about Sunday. Write it in their words, not yours.

What small habit or odd lovely thing should not be left out?

The way they made coffee. The hat. The light they left on. The whistle. The way they folded a towel.

Was there an animal who knew them?

A dog, a cat, a horse, a rabbit, the bird they talked to. The animal's name. Skip if there was not.

What gathering, holiday, or Sunday was theirs?

The table they set. The day nobody missed. Who sat where. What had to be on the plate.

What did they never miss — a game, a season, a show, a visit?

Friday fish. Opening day. A grandchild's recital. The thing they rearranged a life around.

What did they wear that was them — a hat, a jacket, a ring, a color?

The thing in a photograph you would know from the back of a room. Skip if clothes were never the point.

Is there a place they want people to picture them — a chair, a garden, a trail, a kitchen?

Not a cemetery. The room they were most themselves in. Where the light was.

If I sat next to them for an afternoon, what would I notice first?

Voice. Hands. How close they sat. Whether they offered food before they offered talk. The first true thing.

How did they show love without saying the word?

A ride. A plate left in the oven. A letter. Showing up early. Fixing the thing you had not asked about yet.

What made them laugh until they could not talk?

A person. A show. Their own joke told again. Families remember the laugh after they forget the jokes.

What could they not stand, that people who knew them already know?

Lateness. A paper plate on Sunday. Waste. Being fussed over. The dislike is often a value in work clothes.

What were they like in a hard week — quiet, joking, busy, still?

Not the pretty version. The true one. This is the person family actually lived with.

Who did they take care of, and how?

A parent. A neighbor. A child who was not theirs. A crew. Care is a plot, not a trait.

What did they teach people without meaning to?

How to sit down. How to finish. How to be kind when it was inconvenient. A lesson they would deny teaching.

What would be the first thing someone would miss in the house?

A sound. A smell. A chair scraped back. The TV at a certain hour. Name the empty thing.

What photographs belong in the ten-minute film?

About forty pictures makes ten minutes. Name the days, not every file. Garden, classroom, wedding, porch, the ordinary Tuesday. Only photographs family has the right to share.

Which days have to be in the pictures — a wedding, a porch, a classroom, a child?

The days that would make the collage a lie if they were missing. One or four is enough.

Who should be in the pictures, named?

The faces that have to be there. The ones who will look for themselves. A dog if the dog counts. Leave a young child unnamed if they asked for that.

What should we leave out of the pictures?

A hospital room. A person. A time they do not want shown. Be plain. We will obey this.

Are these photographs yours to share — taken by family, or given to you to use?

The person who took the picture owns it. A picture copied off the internet is not yours. Family pictures, and pictures someone handed you, are the ones that belong. Skip if every picture is yours.

What should people remember?

The true thing, not the pretty thing, if those are different. This is the sentence under their name.

What were they proud of, even if they never said it loud?

Work. A child. Staying. Getting out. Getting through. Staying married. The garden. Say it for them if they will not.

What do they want the people who love them to know, while they can still say it?

Said now, while they are here. Not a speech. A few lines is enough. This is not last words. It is living.

Is there one sentence they want in the written story?

The line that has to be in it, in their words. We will not rewrite this line.

If this story had to fit in four lines in a newspaper, what could not be cut?

Name. Who they loved. What they did. The one true thing. Pretend ink is expensive.

What should this story not say?

A marriage. An illness. A name. A cause of anything. Never a Social Security number, a bank number, or a house number. The thing family would be angry to see in print. Skip if nothing is off limits.

What did we miss that has to be in it?

The thing you would be angry to find gone. A nickname. A town. A child. Skip if we have it.