11/14/2025
The profound impact of a true, professional funeral director.
When I was around 12, I attended the service for my friend’s father. It was my first wake and funeral, and I was nervous and apprehensive, having never been near someone who had passed away. My mom made sure I was dressed appropriately and tried to prepare me for what I’d see.
Walking in to the funeral home it wasn't flowers or perfume, but the faint, sterile scent of disinfectant and cool air that lingered in the back hallway.
I remember the hush. The way people spoke in low voices, as if the walls were listening. The way my friend’s hands shook when he tried to pour himself a cup of water. I remember standing uselessly by my mother, wanting to say something, do something, but having nothing to offer except my own discomfort.
Then I noticed the funeral director. Everyone in town new and respected Mr Iannotti but this was the first time I witnessed him working his craft.
He moved quietly—never rushing, never lingering too long. He knew when to step forward and when to fade into the background. When my friend’s mother started crying so hard she could barely stand, he was simply there, one arm at her back, gently guiding her to a chair, saying almost nothing. There was no grand gesture. Just presence.
I watched him all afternoon. I watched the way people’s faces softened when he spoke, how they seemed to breathe easier when he passed by. He didn’t fix their grief, no one could, but he made it feel less unbearable, like he was holding one corner of a heavy crate so they didn’t have to carry it all alone.
On the drive home, his quiet work stayed with me. My respect for his calling, his profession, began to develope.
Weeks passed. Life resumed its usual noise. School, chores, friends, and homework. But every so often, the image of Mr. Iannotti would come back: wiping a widow’s tears with a perfectly folded tissue, straightening a crooked flower arrangement, adjusting a collar before closing the casket. It was work that almost no one noticed; the kind of work that is subtle and can't be taught.
For the rest of my years living in Coventry, RI, I would often drive past the funeral home. Whenever I saw the lot full and the lights glowing softly in lanters, I felt an unexpected sense of relief for families I didn’t even know. I knew they were in Mr. Iannotti’s care, and because of that, I believed they would somehow find their way through one of the hardest moments of their lives.
